I'll Cover You
by deinvati
Summary: John could handle being the bait Gordon had set for Maroni's goons. He definitely didn't think he needed a guard to keep him safe. That is, until he met the massive man assigned to him. Okay, maybe a guard wouldn't be so bad. - Bane/Blake slash, Witness protection AU, bottom!Bane, size kink, canon-typical violence, torture, Bane killing people, like he does, happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For the TDKR gift exchange, based on teacuphuman's prompt: Bodyguard!Bane and his ward John Blake.

My thanks to my brilliant beta, oceaxe, for her tireless work on this one, and everyone else who cheered me on! Enjoy!

* * *

"I don't _need—_ " John broke off, trying to lower his voice at the look Gordon was giving him. "I don't need witness protection," he hissed, spitting the distasteful words out. "And I definitely don't need a _guard._ "

"I disagree," Gordon said calmly, moving a folder on his desk from one spot to another, seemingly at random. "Ever since we put the Dent Act in place, you've got a target on your back, Blake. And your front. And every other side, honestly, and if you weren't so damned public about your involvement—"

"They're the criminals," John insisted, just like he did every time. "Maroni and his goons are the ones who should be afraid. And having me hiding behind your apron strings is playing right into his hands! We should be showing a united, _fearless_ front right now, not—"

"Son," Gordon said, holding up a hand, in a tone of voice that did more to stop John than a lot of things would. John sighed and put his hands on his hips, his fingers automatically finding the familiar groove in his service belt. "You're a very valuable asset for us, you know that," Gordon continued. "We can't afford to lose you. And also," Gordon pressed on as John opened his mouth to protest, "you're a highly recognizable target. One that Maroni might want to specifically track down, to send a message. And as you know, we've never lost anyone from witness protection once they're in our custody."

"Yes, I know, sir, but—"

"Until now."

For a beat, nothing stirred except the dust motes in the air.

"Sir," John said, hesitating, "are you saying—"

"What I'm saying, Blake, is that you're so valuable, we're going to have two sets of eyes on you. Except one will be more visible than the other. And then if one of those sets should happen to fail…" Gordon held John's eyes as he clicked his pen, "... well then, we'll just have to rely on the other set of eyes to watch what happens, won't we?"

Smug satisfaction settled around John's shoulders as he realized what the Commissioner was saying. He nodded, tamping down his excitement at the thought of being bait. It meant the Commissioner trusted him. "Alright," he relented, keeping his voice steady. "But I still don't need a guard. I'm trained. I can handle myself."

Gordon just looked at him flatly. "You're getting a guard."

"Sir!" John wouldn't admit how much his voice sounded like an indignant teenager, but Gordon held his hand up again with a resigned air.

"You've got orders, son. No one knows about these orders but the two of us, not even your guard. So you'll have your work cut out for you. Think you can do your job?"

John clamped his jaw shut and nodded once.

"Good. Stay in plain sight. Be memorable. Get your face where people can take pictures of it. Do some Twittering or something. Get. Noticed."

John frowned and nodded once more. "Understood. But sir—"

He was cut off by a solid rap on the door to Gordon's office.

"That's all. Come in," Gordon called, and John was fairly sure he moved the same file back to where it had been before.

The man who filled the doorway was definitely not someone John had ever seen before. He'd have remembered. Black combat boots announced a heavy tread, and John's eyes traveled over thighs that strained the tactical gear he was wearing, and up to shoulders that literally touched the door frame. He wasn't wearing a holster or kevlar like the on-duty cops behind him were, but he looked like he had no need of them. His posture was a statement, like, " _The fact that I don't rely on such things is a warning. For you._ "

But most unnerving of all was the mask. It covered most of his face; the aggressive black plastic fit close to his skin, his shaved head and expressive eyes peering out.

John swallowed.

"Commissioner Gordon. I was advised to report to you directly."

Even Gordon blinked at the voice that came out of the mask. An odd lilt, slightly muffled, and it made you strain forward and pay attention to catch every word.

"Uh," Gordon said, finally opening the folder. "You must be—"

"Yes," the man interrupted smoothly. "I am. I am called Bane."

"Ah, okay," Gordon said, looking at the paperwork again, "I guess that makes sense. This is Officer John Blake."

John turned and was caught in a stare so intense he thought it might have involved tractor beams.

"Yeah, uh," John grunted, nodding, and sticking his hand out at the last second. "I am. John Blake. I mean."

Bane just raised an eyebrow as he studied John's face before looking at his extended hand. He offered his own, as if acquiescing to this strange tradition for John's sake. His grip was dry and… precise was the only word John could think of. It felt like Bane had calculated exactly how much pressure to apply for John's specific height/weight ratio and background heritage.

John pulled his hand back, eager to break the formidable contact.

"Bane," Gordon said, rolling it in his mouth to try it out. "You come highly recommended. Great experience, great background…" He trailed off and took his glasses off to peer at the larger man more closely. Bane stood with an ease that spoke of being comfortable staying still for hours. Maybe ex-military. Maybe just a night watchman with a steroid addiction. John waited to be dismissed or for the Commissioner to send Bane away so they could finish their discussion. Except Gordon didn't do either.

"Officer Blake here is going to be your ward," Gordon declared. John couldn't stop his jaw from dropping.

"Wait," he tried.

"And since you'll have earned it, John," Gordon said, stressing the word "earned" meaningfully, "when you return to active duty, it'll be with a promotion."

He tossed something to John, who caught it on instinct. The badge was heavier than it looked and gleamed dully in the dingy light.

"Congratulations," came the rumble from behind him, "Detective Blake."

John pushed down the little thrill those words caused and faced Gordon. "And exactly how long am I supposed to be underground? Sir."

Gordon opened the file again and pulled out a slip of paper.

"What's this? A court date?"

"No," Gordon smiled at him. "It's my Netflix password."


	2. Chapter 2

John dropped his bag on the bed, a cloud of dust fluffing into the still air. He sighed and walked to the small air conditioner balancing in the window, cranking the dial and praying it'd be powerful enough to move the stuffiness out of the small house.

The rental Gordon had set him up with was in the fucking desert. And it was summer. John had hated Gordon a little more with every mile away from Gotham he'd gotten— every silent, awkward mile. But when Bane had wordlessly unlocked the front door of the house, it became obvious it had been owned by a single woman in her 80s with no less than three cats, and John's hatred had moved into irrational rage. He tried to channel it into unloading the car.

Bane claimed the first bedroom, which was closest to the front door. John would have complained, but the rooms were identical, down to the same full-size bed in each one. They shared a wall, and both were on the other side of the house from the only bathroom. John hated everything about this house.

There were three couches and two La-z-boys in the front room alone, a television set with rabbit ears, and a cat tree in the corner still coated in hair. John and Bane exchanged a look at the furnishings, but John couldn't tell what he was thinking. John was thinking he'd rather light himself on fire than sit in the chair directly in front of the television, and gave it pretty good odds the woman had died right there.

He spent all of ten minutes unpacking his belongings, the entirety of his lonely apartment fitting into a suitcase, a duffel bag, and one storage tub, before he heard movement in the front room. John found Bane flipping the questionable recliner back up and crouching to lift it.

"Do you want—"

Bane lifted the whole thing in his arms and John scrambled to get out of his way.

"— Ah, guess not."

He averted his eyes from the black t-shirt straining dangerously over obscene biceps as Bane headed out the back door. If Bane wasn't opposed to getting rid of the furniture, John could stand to lose the cat tree too. However, he quickly found that it was apparently integral to the structure of the house, so he settled for searching to see if there was a vacuum cleaner to at least get rid of the hair.

When Bane came back inside, he was examining a rip in the sleeve of his shirt, his eyebrows drawn together ferociously. John switched off the vacuum cleaner.

"Everything alright?"

Bane glanced over but otherwise ignored him as he headed to his room. John watched him pull the shirt he was wearing over his head, catching a glimpse of muscles… so many muscles, and a wide, drastic scar going up Bane's spine. He didn't think he made a noise, but Bane jerked to a stop and turned, watching John watching, and closed the door with an authoritative click.

John looked down at himself, a vacuum wand in one hand and a libedo which wasn't listening to sense, and rolled his eyes. He dropped the vacuum and left it there out of spite, deciding he needed some air. Maybe he could meet the neighbors. Or at the very least, he could hang out in the yard and if anyone was watching the house, they'd know they had the right one.

He got three steps past the front door before an enormous hand clamped down on his shoulder and hauled him backward into a chest made out of bricks.

"Ow."

Bane marched him back inside and slammed the door. "You are not to go outside alone."

Bane's mask in John's face did little to quell the itch of rage still lurking under his skin. "What the fuck? Am I under house arrest!? No offense, but I didn't sign up to be locked in a box with the Incredible Hulk. I'm allowed to go _outside_ , Bane."

Bane's name sounded intimate coming out of his mouth, and it seemed Bane thought so too. He raised an expressive eyebrow at John.

"Not until I have assessed the perimeter and installed security measures," he said, ignoring the Hulk comment.

Damn it. So much for dangling the bait. "And what am I supposed to do until then?" John demanded.

Bane looked almost amused. "I'm sure you can find something. You are not a child."

"Are you sure," John snapped, "because you sure feel like a babysitter."

John crossed his arms, the childishness of the action not lost on him, but too angry to do anything about it.

Bane was definitely laughing at him now. He moved to the bag on his bed once again and returned with a notebook open to a clean page and a pen. He handed both to John. "I will begin now. You may start a list of the places you wish to frequent. We will create a schedule."

With that, he left again through the back door, and John wanted to throw the pen across the room. Fuck that guy. He clamped down on the juvenile thoughts racing through his head which ranged from, " _he's not the boss of me_ " to " _dunk his toothbrush in the toilet_ " and instead sat on the least-used-looking couch.

He made a list of public places he could go which wouldn't sound suspicious to Bane. In truth, when he was home, he didn't really go out much. He worked a lot, and when he wasn't working he volunteered at the boys home, coaching basketball and leading counseling circles. He felt a twinge at the thought of those boys and hoped he'd be returning to them soon.

John tapped the pen on the paper and listened for Bane, then, hearing nothing, opened the notebook to the first page. John felt a giddy thrill at seeing what Bane might write down in his private notebook, but it dampened when he realized he couldn't read it. He picked out at least two different languages, several pages of what looked like drawings of chemical compounds, and another of math equations that involved more letters than numbers. John blinked. He flipped through the rest, scanning, until he came to the second to last page. In amidst the gobbledygook was a word he recognized. "Maroni." And a phone number.

John wasn't sure what made him look up, but Bane was standing there, watching him. For a big guy, he sure was quiet when he wanted to be. John felt his ears heating and he stood and handed back the book to cover his embarrassment. He felt like he'd been caught looking through someone's medicine cabinet.

Bane just read over the list and moved to the refrigerator. He attached it with a kitten magnet and went back outside. John gritted his teeth, got his earbuds, and went back to the vacuum cleaner.

Bane came back in while he was wrestling with the new bag, trying to attach it while covered in sweat and cat hair, and Bane stood in front of the window air conditioner and seemed to steam. John had no idea what security measures required that kind of exertion, but his mask worked loud enough that John could hear it, and Bane only moved away when he had caught his breath, closing the bedroom door behind him. The vacuum cleaner was impossible after that.


	3. Chapter 3

Bane had finally agreed to him going out to the yard, only for John to find that Bane had erected a seven-foot privacy fence. There were security cameras installed also, with feeds that Bane could monitor on his laptop or phone. John begrudgingly acknowledged the man was good at his job.

His first afternoon in The Yard, he had brought his yoga mat and tried to channel his frustration to clearing out his chakras or some shit, but when he was done, he just lay in the sun, letting it bake the sweat into his skin. Sometimes he wished he could shut his mind off completely. With a sigh, he grabbed his phone.

He'd memorized the number, of course, although he wasn't sure exactly what he hoped to find out. But half of, no, most of John's career was made up of rashly following through on hunches, and he'd learned to listen to that little niggle in the back of his mind.

The phone connected and for a long, heavy moment, there was no sound. Then a low voice demanded, "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

The accent could have been anyone in Gotham, but the command rang with authority. "Put your supervisor on the phone," John demanded, channeling every ounce of self-assurance into his tone. The call disconnected anyway and John shrugged mentally. Maybe it was nothing. It was probably nothing.

He looked at his phone again and considered before opening the app and tweeting, " _How can it be so hot here!? It should be illegal that there's no place to get a venti iced caramel macchiato._ " Seconds later, a heavy shadow fell over his face.

"Relinquish your phone."

"What?" John asked, squinting at Bane. "No way, this—"

Bane reached down and plucked it from his fingers.

"Hey!"

Bane quelled him with a fierce look. John watched as his square thumbs jabbed the phone before turning it to show John he'd deleted the tweet, anger radiating from his large frame.

"I would not have thought you to be so unintelligent or careless, Detective. You cannot be trusted with such devices, it seems."

John sneered. "What are you going to do, send me to my room?"

Bane's eyes narrowed. "Yes." Then his fist tightened enough to make his phone creak in its case.

John's own fists tightened. "Is that a threat?"

Bane's fist tightened further. "No." Then the phone crumpled in his fist. The tinkle of glass into the sparse grass at his feet shimmered in the sun and bits of plastic rained down to meet them.

John had then, understandably, "become irrational" and "endangered their security" by yelling his damn head off, until Bane had simply gone into the house and John had no choice but to pick up his shattered pieces of phone and yoga mat and follow him. He attempted to continue his "list of complaints" against Bane, which Bane listened to with crossed arms and sharp eyes, as if waiting for something. He suggested John use Bane's phone to contact Gordon and register his concerns, or if he preferred, he could return to his own room and enjoy his laptop and remaining access to the internet he had available.

"I will not provide another warning, Detective."

And John had stormed to his room, (with his laptop and internet) and fumed. He'd also plotted other ways to try and accomplish his mission, which Bane was making impossibly difficult. And while he was at it, tried to figure out if the reason Bane had destroyed his phone was because of the tweet, or because of the phone call.

Then the A/C went out, and John couldn't stay in his room anymore. The silence and solitude had never bothered him when he lived alone, but knowing Bane was in the other room not talking to him, combined with the heat making his skin prickle, was making him twitchy.

"Hey, Bane?"

John couldn't find him in the front room, and the door to Bane's room stood gapingly open. John frowned.

"Bane?"

It wasn't like he had a lot of places to hide in this house. John headed to the backyard.

Bane was standing behind the tree in the back corner talking on his phone, and if the tree had been any bigger or Bane had been any smaller, he might have missed him. Bane was standing defiantly as he held the phone to his ear, listening, his eyebrows drawn fiercely together.

John stepped off the back porch, Bane's name on his lips, just as Bane commanded, "No."

John froze before he realized Bane wasn't talking to him.

"That is not the arrangement," Bane continued, his voice calm in a way that belied the intensity in his body language and his eyes. He listened, then turned and caught sight of John, still frozen with one foot on the step.

Without another word, Bane pulled the phone from his ear and ended the call. He walked past John into the house, ignoring him completely, surging with unspent energy. John shivered. He couldn't tell if it was from his proximity to the live wire that was Bane, or because the niggle in the back of his mind was back.

Hmm. Something to consider. Once he was cool enough for rational thought, though. Right now neurons were firing due to spontaneous combustion only.

"Bane?"

There was a grunt from the front room which signaled Bane was probably listening.

"Think the Witness Protection Program's credit is good enough to buy Viola Weatherby central air? Because I gotta tell you," he said, walking back in the front room, "I've never bought _myself_ an air conditioner, but if I have to go the whole summer without A/C, I'm going to be pissed."

They'd found an old stack of bills on the second day and John had taken to calling the home's prior owner by her first and last name at every chance he got. He told himself it was to humanize her so he couldn't hate her or her stupid house as much, but he wasn't sure he believed it. It might have been because he didn't want to consider himself the home's owner. It definitely didn't have anything to do with the fact that it made Bane's eyes crinkle at the corners like he was smiling under the mask.

Bane looked up thoughtfully from where he'd settled, working on something cradled in his large hands, and hummed, then went back to work. John had decided that meant either Bane didn't know or didn't care to tell John what he knew. Every time it happened, John couldn't tell which was more likely.

He thought about asking about the phone call, who he'd been speaking to, what arrangement he'd made. "What are you working on?" John asked instead, just to see if he got the same hum. But Bane surprised him, leaning his hands toward John to reveal the t-shirt he'd ripped on the first day and some of Viola Weatherby's sewing supplies.

"Wow. You are... not good at that," John quipped.

He'd meant it to relieve the tension, but the flash of dismay in Bane's eyes was brief but real. John knew he should apologize, but Bane had already smoothed over his features and shrugged, his giant hands resuming his work, handling the needle and thread with care and attention, and still producing labored, uneven stitches.

John gritted his teeth, feeling awkward and out of sorts. He needed something to do with his own hands or the trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades was going to drive him to drink. He contemplated making a snack, but even the thought of trying to throw something together for just him, let alone the two of them in the blistering heat was enough to make him want to punch something.

He missed going to work, which was probably not something most people thought to miss. Then he reminded himself that technically he was supposed to be working here too, and he needed to get back to being a highly recognizable target. It was his job to be noticed, despite Bane's insistence on staying inside. At this point, he would welcome a group of men with assault rifles and ski masks threatening to kill him. Except no one had any chance to nibble at the bait. John wouldn't say no to nibbling right about now. Jesus, he needed to take a cold shower.

Because of how hot it was.

"Hey," John said, shaking himself back into work mode, "what about the list? Can we find someplace that has working A/C? I was thinking even a town this size should have a decent gym. Maybe a boxing club."

Bane regarded him silently and then nodded, setting his sewing aside. John felt like a kid, practically skipping to his room to pack a gym bag. He wondered if Bane would be working out too or if he'd just drop him off. Or just watch. John ignored everything his brain tried to throw his way at that thought and hurried to keep Bane from changing his mind.

John was not very good at being stuck in a house with Bane; the man was a constant itch in his subconscious. Even when John couldn't see him, he could _sense_ him: looming, flexing, walking from one fucking room to another like he was an emperor. The way Bane moved was something John couldn't think about too closely because Bane was fascinating. He was huge, so of course he dominated any room he was in. But he was also silent when he wanted to be and John felt he could blend into the shadows if he desired.

John started to sweat through his shirt the second they stepped outside. Bane had drawn the curtains and started a fan, so it was cooler in the little house than he'd realized, and the mid-afternoon sun was brutal. He put aside his thoughts of punching out his frustrations and said a prayer of thanks when it turned out the gym had a pool.

For his own sanity, John didn't look around when he changed in the locker room, just quickly shucked his clothes and threw on a pair of trunks, assuming Bane would either stop him or ignore him. He was hoping for the latter, which was Bane's specialty. Well, technically, stopping bad guys was supposed to be Bane's specialty, but in the short time John had known Bane, he had learned very little about him. Except that he was a bossy fucker and his stupid fucking shoulders were fucking stupid.

As John slid into the cool water and proceeded to beat himself into exhaustion, his mind wandered. Somewhere between one lap and the next, John went from thinking about his form and stroke to thinking about Bane's form and stroking. The man was built like a brick shithouse and John had a type, okay? It wasn't John's fault that his brain was going there. If Bane paid the slightest bit of attention to him, John might have been able to stop thinking about him like a piece of meat and actually talk to him. As it was, conversation about anything would be a distraction.

When he was too exhausted to make his muscles move any more, he climbed shakily out of the water. The locker room was blessedly empty and John breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped under the weak spray of the shower.

Bane still hadn't appeared by the time John was dressed, so he went to drop off his used towels and see if he could also drop a few clues for Maroni's men. Except when he walked past the free weight room, Bane was hard to miss. He was bench pressing more than John's body weight and being spotted by some lucky bastard in tiny shorts. John swallowed. He had to get out of there.

John was chatting loudly with the guy at the front desk when Bane finally emerged from the locker room, his heat-seeking-missile eyes landing on John immediately and narrowing. He jerked his head and John followed, waving to Front Desk Guy. They piled into the black sedan Gordon had rented for them, John's tired limbs folding gratefully into the passenger seat.

Maybe if they were friends, John could stop thinking about Bane's thighs. "So, are we going to do this the whole time? This silence thing?"

Bane's eyes didn't leave the road and he answered, "What do you wish to discuss?"

"Nothing, man, that's the point. I just," John sighed, "I just want to talk to someone. It's not like I can call up my friends and go for a beer."

"We can acquire alcohol at the store."

"Jesus," John mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's not... look. How about we just talk to each other, yeah? Like humans."

Bane didn't say anything but John thought he gave a slight nod. Then, nothing.

"Is... is this your version of talking?"

Bane's hands tightened on the wheel and then relaxed. "What... do you wish to discuss?"

"Mother— okay, how about this? How about I ask you questions and you can answer them. Yeah?"

Bane's eyebrows drew together and he gave an almost imperceptible head shake. "There is information which I am not at liberty to— "

John rolled his eyes and held up a hand. "Fine, fine, fine. Okay." He thought for a moment. "What if I tell you about myself?"

Was that… was that smugness? Did Bane look smug under there? "I have already read your file, Detective," he told John. "Name: Robin Johnathan Blake. Birthdate: September 3, 1981. Hometown: Gotham. Parents: Deceased. Siblings: None. Attended school— "

"Fuck, you are really bad at this, you know that?"

Bane nodded. "Yes."

John tamped down his annoyance. "What if I tell you what I know about you?"

Bane took his eyes off the road long enough to look at John with surprise. "What do you know?"

John grinned. "Well, let's see." He settled back in his seat. "Obviously, you've been in prison..."

Bane's hands tightened on the steering wheel again and stayed that way. John could swear he heard it groan. After a pregnant pause, Bane said, "I do not like your little game."

"Wait," John said, sitting up again, "I was right? Holy shit, I was just kidding. You were actually in prison? They sent me an ex-con to watch me day and night? Does Gordon know about this?"

Bane looked at him sharply, then jerked his eyes back to the road. "Enough."

Gordon had to have known, of course, because his plan was to dangle John tantalizingly in front of the bad guys so he could see who took a bite. Which wouldn't work if Bane was any good at being a bodyguard. Gordon was banking on Bane being shit at this job. Except… he wasn't. John frowned and wondered what Bane had done time for.


	4. Chapter 4

Their sedan pulled up to the curb outside Viola Weatherby's bungalow and John bathed his face in the blissfully cool air flowing from the vents.

"Goodbye, sweet, re-circulated Freon air. I'll miss you so," John crooned, delaying exiting as long as possible. Bane ignored him, as usual.

His body was blocking the sun when John finally sighed and opened the door, so John appreciated he could at least melt into the concrete while standing in the comfort of a giant shadow. That is, assuming he expired before entering the sauna that was the small house. John had no idea how Bane was so unaffected by the heat, his only telling sign a sheen of sweat on his scalp. Even his arms, crossed in annoyance, didn't appear to be flushed.

"Bane, how are you—"

But then Bane stiffened, his eyes tracking everywhere.

"Quiet."

And the niggle in the back of John's mind bloomed into a full-grown hurricane. Every muscle in Bane's body screamed, " _Warning! Warning! Danger!_ " and John's body reacted instinctively.

"Get down!" Bane barked, but John was already dropping into a crouch, fingers reaching for a gun that wasn't there and cursing when he couldn't grab it.

A single bullet flew past John's head and embedded itself into the side of the car.

"Jesus!" John yelped, flinging himself to the side.

Bane was already in motion, yanking open the door of the car and shoving John behind it and whatever cover it offered. Bane opened the glove box and withdrew a handgun, not police issue, John's brain noticed, and he hunkered down next to John, eyes scanning everywhere.

"They're in the house," Bane remarked as he sighted the front window, his voice steady like he dealt with this every day. Maybe he did.

"How many?" John croaked, wishing for his gun, his kevlar, his badge. He hated feeling this helpless.

Bane arched an eyebrow without humor. "It only requires one."

It wasn't funny, but John had the demented desire to laugh. "Oh, good. Glad there's two of us, then."

And to his surprise, Bane turned to look at him, the crinkles next to his eyes indicating he was smiling. "Indeed."

He rose to a crouch, poised for action, and handed John the gun. He nodded to where the curtain was twitched aside and a bullet hole was in the glass. There was no movement. "There. Stay behind me, Detective. They're after you, not me. As soon as I pass into the shadow of the house, get into the car. I'll need you to cover the front in case he gets past me, or if there are more of them."

"Fuck that, Bane. If you're going in, I'm going in. I can clear the yard and come in through the back if you don't want me on your six. But, for god's sake, take the fucking gun."

Bane made that non-committal hum. "No."

He was up and moving before John could react, and John cussed under his breath, checking the gun and raising it to cover him. There was still no movement, no shots fired.

John's senses were on high alert; he could see a bee buzzing near the flower box and hear a bird call and feel the sweat under his armpits running down his ribcage, all nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. The few feet from car to shadow took Bane hours to cross.

When he finally made it to the shade, time snapped back to brutal accuracy and John could feel the seconds slip by as he scrambled up and broke left, sprinting to the backyard. Another shot rang out behind him but he kept moving, until he was behind the house. He paused to catch his breath, more winded than the short distance merited, and then headed to the back of the house.

The small space didn't take long to clear and John eased the back door open. He could hear a murmur from the front room and Bane's unmistakable voice answering in something other than English. John cleared the rooms quickly, one at a time, his instincts screaming at him to _hurry, hurry_. When he finally got close enough, he could see Bane standing over a man on his knees, holding his hands out like he was pleading. Bane's calm voice was in disagreement with the wide hand he had around the man's throat. Bane spoke a single sentence, even and placid, and the man looked to John, his eyes terrified, then back to Bane. The man tried to reply, his hands going for his pocket, when a _crunch_ rang out. Bane, with a flick of his wrist, snapped the man's neck as easy as John would snap his fingers.

John flinched as the man flopped back onto the rug, his legs and neck at an unnatural angle. Bane gave John a perfunctory glance. "Wait here," he instructed, then retrieved the phone from his pocket and stepped past John out the back door.

As soon as he was out of sight, John sagged against the wall, putting the safety back on with hands that were trembling with adrenaline, and taking deep breaths. Then, he stowed his weapon and approached the body to check for a pulse. Seeing as how his spinal cord was no longer attached to his neck it seemed unnecessary, but when he failed to find one, he noted the time on his watch. There was protocol to follow.

The thing was, though, his instincts were still screaming _hurry, hurry_ , even after Bane had eliminated the man sent to kill John. Because even though he couldn't be certain, John thought that the last word out of the man's mouth had been, "Bane."

Bane was currently having a telephone conversation in the yard, and as John moved closer to hear it, he kept well out of Bane's sight. Because he didn't know who Bane was talking to, but it definitely wasn't Gordon. Or the cops. Because it wasn't in English.

Bane disconnected and turned abruptly, before John could move out of his line of sight. Caught and knowing it, John stepped out, arms crossed.

"Question. Are you going to call the cops now?"

Bane eyed him, as if insulted by the challenge, pressed the speakerphone button on his phone and dialed a number.

"Gordon."

"Commissioner. I trust you understand I would not contact you unless necessary."

"... yes?"

"Excellent. We've had a break-in. One of Maroni's men was waiting for us and attempted to eliminate Detective Blake. I took the liberty of eliminating the mercenary instead."

There was a heavy pause on the other end before Gordon said, "I understand. Thank you for calling, Bane. I'll send a team."

Bane shot John a look that seemed to say, "Good enough for you?" He ended the call and turned to head into the house. John trotted to keep up.

"How did you know it was one of Maroni's?"

"Do you have a plethora of people who'd like to kill you, Detective Blake?"

"I might," John said following him back to the body. "You don't know it was one of Maroni's."

"I do," was the assured reply.

"How?" John challenged sarcastically. "Do you know him or something?"

Bane turned to look at John, annoyed, the toe of his black boot touching the body in a way that made John flinch on behalf of his forensics professors.

"I know his kind." Bane leaned down and pulled the man's lifeless hand out of his pocket before fishing in his jeans with his bare hands. John squawked in disbelief, which Bane ignored. "Here you are."

He passed John a cream colored business card, held between his two fingers, and John accepted it only after wrapping his hand in the hem of his t-shirt.

The card had a gold 'M' in the middle, nothing more. But John had seen enough of them dropped on top of bodies in the street to know Bane was exactly right.

"How did you…?"

But Bane was leaving, out the front door and stopping on the sidewalk with his hands up, just in time for three cruisers to pull up, lights and sirens blaring. John sighed and raised his hands too.

The officers who showed up were local, and very excited to work a case. Fortunately, the chief had been briefed by Gordon, so he took cursory statements from John and Bane himself, then let everyone else do their jobs, even though there was no crime to solve. They chatted with John, tried to impress Bane, and the noise and flow was comfortingly familiar.

And then, they left. With Voila Weatherby's rug void of any dead bodies, he could almost pretend it hadn't happened.

For the first few days, John felt numb about almost being killed. So when Bane insisted on exiting the house first, driving around buildings before entering, and checking the yard first before John went outside, John didn't argue. But after a while, John started to wonder at Bane's reaction to the attempted "elimination," as Bane had called it.

He'd expected Bane would ramp up the already ridiculous amount of protection he provided John— cancelling their scheduled outings, more security cameras, etc. But Bane didn't. He was even more closed off than usual, which John hadn't known was even possible. He seemed to have the same low level of anger burning in his gut which John knew so well. He also had more phone calls in the yard.

They were short, generally. Bane seemed to argue with whomever he was talking to, and then act as if the call hadn't happened. John stopped keeping track, after a while.

John's new life revolved around their list of outings, and he still had a job to do, so he gritted his teeth and tried to do it. He planned ways to be as obtrusive as possible, introducing himself over and over, with an odd enough backstory to sound suspicious.

The trips to the library were Bane's favorite, and John found a few decent paperbacks and a series of graphic novels he hadn't ever picked up before but, as he had recently come upon an abundance of free time, he figured why the hell not. Bane would check out a large stack of books every time, topics ranging from a mathematics text to a biography of the Ayatollah to Evelyn Waugh. John tried not to feel stupid.

The grocery store, though, was painful. Bane would sneer at John's box of Twinkies, so he would get two. After which Bane would spend literal ages picking out produce until John wanted to scream. When they'd first arrived at John's new "home", Bane had brought in fast food or they'd made individual meals for themselves which they'd eaten in separate rooms. John was just fine with that. There was a reason he went to the gym, and it certainly wasn't the GPD physical fitness requirements. But the more times they went to the grocery store, the more Bane seemed interested in actual food, scanning each aisle like the shelves might contain unspent munitions. He never had anything specific he was looking for but he refused to let John wander the aisles on his own.

"Stop being an infant. I will not make inferior meals simply because you refuse to stand still long enough to acquire the necessary ingredients."

"Well, when your superior meals start to benefit me, I'll stop complaining."

Bane just shot him a look which made John go examine the avocados a little closer.

When they finally made it back to the house, John found himself taking a deep breath in relief as they came out of the heat. And then hating himself just a little. This should not now, or ever, be a place he wanted to come back to and the fact that he was, for a short moment, glad to be here just indicated he was going _insane_.

Bane's dinner smelled delicious. John had been pouting in his room, plotting ways to slip Bane's massive, albeit somewhat comforting clutches, but the smell of searing meat made his mouth water. When he peeked into the kitchen, Bane was wearing a floral apron with ruffled edges, and John bit his lip at how tiny it looked on his huge frame.

"Smells good," John ventured.

Bane glanced at him, his eyes bright as he poured a drizzle of red wine into the pan and swirled it. To John's surprise, Bane retrieved a spoon and dipped it in the sauce, then held it out to John expectantly.

It looked savory, a slice of mushroom clinging to the spoon. Even just this spoonful smelled amazing and John would never again assume there was something Bane couldn't do.

He just tasted it at first, tongue rescuing the drip on the bottom of the spoon and lips catching about half the sauce into his mouth. He wanted to savor the mushroom, instinctively knowing this one mouthful wouldn't be enough, and he was right. His eyes slipped closed so he could focus on the combination of flavors. He had no idea what Bane was making, probably something with an unpronounceable French name, but it was unlike anything he'd had before. It was rich and smooth, decadent, a punch of flavor in a tiny sip. A sound escaped his throat before he chased down the rest of the spoonful, chewing the mushroom slowly to release another burst of succulence.

"Holy shit," John said, then licked every drop from the spoon like an idiot. He didn't care. "That was fucking delicious. What is that?"

"Do you like it?"

John's eyes jerked to Bane's at the huskiness in his voice. Bane was watching him, his pupils dilated, and okay, holy fuck. John had never been so instantly aroused in his whole life. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips and Bane's gaze followed it.

This was a really, really, really stupid idea, John, bad, no, nononononono— "Yeah," John said, his voice low.

"It is Coq Au Vin, Detective Blake," Bane said, breaking the tension and pulling away, his focus once again on the pan. "It will be ready in five minutes."

John was left standing there, holding a spoon and feeling, once again, like an ignorant asshole. "For me, too?"

Bane looked at him and hummed.

"Oh. Uh, okay, I'll set the table," John mumbled. There had to be a way to speed Maroni's guys along. He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

When they were settled and Bane was spreading his napkin on his lap, John realized with a jolt that Bane would have to remove his mask to eat. For some reason, it hadn't quite occurred to him to wonder what Bane looked like under there. After the initial shock wore off, the mask had always just been a part of Bane's face. John kept his eyes on his plate as Bane reached for the clasps on the back.

"You may look, Detective. I am aware of the mask and what it hides. You might as well be also. After all, we all wear them."

John cocked his head at that, but put his fork down and watched. The mask was mostly plastic with bits of metal for the respirator part on the front. It had to have been custom made as closely as it fit Bane's head. There were faint lines on his cheeks from where the mask hugged his face, and Bane wiped his nose and mouth as he pulled it away. He seemed completely unselfconscious, but John knew that if that were the truth, it was hard won.

The left side of Bane's nose and mouth were mangled. A chunk of his upper lip was missing, scar tissue twisting what must have originally been a very handsome face.

"What does it do?" John asked, nodding to the mask Bane had lain on the table, but Bane just gave a short head shake.

"After," he said, and his voice sounded both different and the same without the interference of the mask. The same intonation, the same strange, hard-to-place accent. But his pronunciation due to his missing lip was more noticeable now that he could see it and the flash of teeth. He was glad Bane had let him look and sorry that he had needed to so badly.

Bane ate quickly, moving food he'd previously cut into small bites efficiently from plate to fork to mouth and chewing perfunctorily. He paused only to wash it down with large gulps of water, his napkin held to his mouth to smoothly catch stray drops. As soon as the last bite of food was gone, Bane reattached his mask with a sigh of relief.

John barely noticed. If the spoonful at the stove had been foreplay, this was an orgasm on a plate. The chicken was tender and the mushrooms were seared perfectly, and there were those tiny onions which John had known existed in a detached way but had never actually eaten. He delighted in spearing them and crunching them between his teeth like a giant. He groaned, and exclaimed, and took seconds, and finally sat back with a sigh after wiping his plate clean of every drop with a slice of bread.

"Oh my God," he said, letting his head drop back. "I'm letting you cook forever. I will never complain about produce shopping again."

Bane was watching him, the look in his eyes hard to read. Amused? Assessing? Aroused? Some other word that began with 'A'? John almost didn't care because he had found heaven and it was in the desert and was covered in doilies and cat hair.

He supposed it would be an asshole move to pop the button on his pants and take a nap, but that didn't mean he didn't want to. Bane just twirled his fork, watching him. When Bane shifted, John sighed and sat up.

"I'll get the dishes. You cooked."

Bane's eyebrows drew together and he shook his head. "I'm afraid there are plenty for both of us. I shall assist you."

His voice was familiar again and John found himself smiling. And that's how John wound up washing while Bane dried, a man who was supposed to be bad at his job but was unfortunately very good, and a man who had trouble eating but had made the best food John had ever tasted in Viola Weatherby's galley kitchen. A man he should have been concerning to him but was, somehow, making him smile.

John watched him out of the corner of his eye, and Bane let him.

"So, you like to read."

Bane hummed in that way he had and John handed him another dish.

"And you like math. And chemistry."

Bane just kept wiping.

"And you like cooking but you don't like eating."

Bane looked at him then, his eyebrows frowning.

John shrugged. "You're a contradictory guy, Bane."

Bane put the dish gently in the cupboard as if it were made of crystal. "It is for administering pain medication, as well as oxygen when I need it."

John thought he'd forgotten and hadn't been about to ask again. But he was curious. "How many times a day do you take pain medication?"

"Continuously."

His voice said the topic was now closed, and John nodded. He drained the sink and hung the dishrag over the faucet like he'd done when he was a kid helping his mom. He couldn't remember anything she had cooked.

John blinked at the stray thought and looked up to find Bane had already left, moving like the fog. John shook his head to clear it and turned out the kitchen light as he left.

Bane sank into the recliner John now thought of as "Bane's" and John settled on the sofa, wishing for the ten thousandth time he still had a phone. Bane was deep into the life of the Ayatollah so John grabbed his own book, putting the small reading lamp to its intended use.

He tried to read. He really did. He was sick of feeling stupid around Bane and it wasn't like this was brain-draining stuff. It was just that he could _feel_ Bane in the room. His presence was pressing in on him, the quiet domesticity of a man who could literally lift him over his head if he wanted, and yet he was sitting there, feet away, sedately flipping pages at a rate much faster than John's own. John sighed.

His wandering eyes landed on Viola Weatherby's sewing basket and the neatly folded shirt that still lay beside it, repaired tear puckering the fabric. On impulse, John stood and retrieved both.

Bane's eyes followed him, but John ignored him. He'd learned at St. Swithins at the feet of one of the nuns and had been mending his own clothes for most of his life. He was pretty good at it, actually. He could at least do this for the man who'd made a dinner good enough to moan about.

He quickly ripped out the uneven stitches Bane had laid in and threaded the needle. He chose a catch stitch so the soft fabric could still stretch over Bane's biceps, and got to work. His lip firmly between his teeth so he could concentrate, he smiled to himself when he heard the pages resume their flipping. It didn't take long, and when John clipped the thread, he felt a sense of pride the small job probably didn't deserve. But he didn't care. He returned the items where he'd found them, shirt folded neatly again as if Bane hadn't just watched him, and stretched.

"I think I'm going to head to bed," John announced to the room. "I've got a lot of digesting to do."

Bane hummed and John took that to mean "good night." He counted it as a win. Maybe he and Bane could get even work up to a talking stage someday.

In his bed, in the dark, though, sleep was an elusive bitch. John tossed and turned for an hour before he heard the tread of Bane's boots crossing the hardwood and movement on the other side of the wall. Finally, there was a creak which signaled Bane settling into his own lumpy mattress and then nothing. John's mind helpfully filled in what Bane looked like, what he was (or rather what he wasn't) wearing, stretched out and sighing as he relaxed with his hands behind his head, biceps on display.

John glared at his cock, tenting the floral sheets, and knew exactly what his body wanted in order to fall asleep. He tried to remind it that it had only been four days since he'd last jacked off and if he really needed to, he could wait until his morning shower. His cock reminded him exactly how Bane's thighs had looked braced on either side of the bench press and how delightfully sturdy they'd be to straddle. He reminded his cock it was rude to jerk off thinking about people on the other side of the wall, and his cock reminded him how quick and quiet he could be.

"Damn it," John whispered to himself and licked his palm.

The first touch of his own hand made his balls ache, and he ran his fingers lightly over his length, still covered by his boxers. Then he eased them down enough for his cock to spring free. His left hand stroked through the short hairs there, cupping his balls and sighing as he tugged. With his right hand, he rubbed the flat of his palm over the head, the spit-slicked slide of friction making his toes curl.

John sucked in air through his teeth and relaxed back into the mattress, getting down to business and stroking his shaft slowly and firmly. He pictured rubbing off against the muscles of Bane's back and almost moaned, squeezing his eyes and lips shut to keep the noise inside. A slow breath out and he could start stroking again, lighter this time. Fingertips and thumb instead of his whole hand, teasing himself until he was straining upward, stomach tensed and thighs pushing toward his relief.

John stopped and slapped his cock against his palm a few times, then his stomach, his balls drawing up at the sharp sound, and John bent his knees to press his feet into the mattress.

"Mmm." The hum wasn't loud, but he clenched his teeth against it anyway. He was so close. He just needed a few more—

John sped up, his precome making a soft squelching sound and, fuck, he didn't care because he could practically feel Bane stretching his ass with those thick fingers. John would sit on his lap, humping his abs, clinging to his traps like a fucking lifeline, as Bane's voice rumbled filth in his ear.

Spikes of pleasure rippled through his whole body, his groin aching for release, and John was so fucking close. He gasped into the darkness, his dick hot and urgent in his hand, and then Bane's voice in his mind growled, " _Do you like it?"_

John came so hard he thought his eardrums bulged. "Fuuuck," John breathed through his orgasm, rocking his hips into his fist. He worked himself through it, thighs shaking with the aftershocks and his whole body jerking as a few more drops joined the pool on his belly. Holy shit, that had been hot.

John panted, catching his breath as his eyes rolled back in his head, his muscles molten. Fuck. Fuuuck. Fuckfuckfuck yes.

Then he froze as he heard the sound of Bane turning over on his mattress.

The sound he could clearly hear. As if it had been in the same room. A sound which his own mattress had just been rhythmically making.

Ah, shit.


	5. Chapter 5

John wasn't _embarrassed_. So he had jerked off before going to sleep. Big deal. Millions of healthy humans did it every day. That wasn't why he was laying in his room with raging morning wood and his hands resolutely above the covers. It was just that Bane was already awake and moving around, and he needed to take a shower and the shower was on the other side of the house. So that meant he had three choices: take care of business and hope Bane didn't hear him (again), stay here and think about dead kittens and baseball statistics and hope it wouldn't take as long as it felt like it was going to take, or grab some coverage and make a run for it.

John sighed and grabbed an extra towel.

When he emerged after his hasty shower (and taking care of business, of course), Bane was sliding the world's fluffiest omelet onto a plate at a table set for two. John stifled a groan. He was going to have to call Maroni and invite him the fuck over because this had to end before he was 300 pounds and in love with Bane's cooking.

Bane cleared his throat. "So tell me, Detective Blake," Bane said, mask in place as he cut an apple into small bites, "how long have you been working on the Maroni case?"

John settled into the chair, still rubbing his hair with the towel around his neck. "I thought you had already read my file." But he said it with a grin and he could see the answering crinkles around Bane's eyes.

Bane simply hummed and removed his mask. He didn't rush, but he didn't waste movements either. John watched for a beat and then shrugged.

"About four years," he said, taking a bite of his food and holding back the moan. His eyes may have fluttered closed for a second though. "I was part of a bust on a drugs shipment, and managed to be the only guy there to get shot."

Bane just watched him and continued eating, unsurprised, so that must have been in the file. John propped his heel on the table and raised the leg of his jeans just enough to show the reminder of his injury, star-shaped on one side of his calf, a mess of scar tissue on the other. John tilted his head. "So you could say I'm in it for revenge."

It was an old joke, one he'd told many times, but Bane didn't laugh. In fact, he frowned, reaching for his orange juice and napkin. "No," he said simply before taking a drink, and John busied himself with righting his clothing rather than watch. "So why?" Bane asked.

Bane's voice was a little breathless as he returned to his plate, but John's forehead creased. "Why what? Why am I in it? I'm a cop. I go where they send me."

Bane gave a small head shake and didn't respond, just finished his food and wiped his mouth before returning the mask. John waited, trying to make his omelet last and ignoring the bottle of tabasco he normally used liberally. He did not moan.

"You mean why am I a cop?" John asked when Bane's mask was reseated but he did not elaborate on his question. Bane just looked at him. John lifted one shoulder. "Well, after being an infamous rock and roll icon for so long, I was looking for something different. I thought about being an actor, but, you know. Then you have to go to award shows and you get hounded by the paparazzi…" John made a face. "So I figured," he slapped the table, "Gotham PD. See how the other half lives."

Bane raised an unamused eyebrow.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, what do you want to hear?' he snapped. "That I wanted to save the city? Make the world a better place? Give back to the community which has given me so much?" He scowled. "I'm just an orphan from The Narrows. It was either this or the Piggly Wiggly."

Bane didn't say anything but he did stop staring at John, and instead toyed with the knife he'd used on the apple. John watched him handle it with an easy nonchalance and felt bad about being pissy with him. None of this was his fault.

"So," he tried, shifting in his chair, "what made you want to be a," he gestured to Bane's entire being, "bodyguard?"

Bane's eyes snapped to John's and tightened as if considering him. "Well," he said slowly, the knife blade catching the light, "it was either this or the Piggly Wiggly."

John smirked, huffing a laugh out his nose, then grinned at his plate. He wondered if Bane would make him another omelet if he asked nicely.

* * *

Bane had dropped him off for church and said he was going to stay in the car. John shrugged and didn't think anything of it until he got out of mass and the car wasn't in the parking lot. He felt a flash of concern at first, then was annoyed at himself. Bane, of all people, could take care of himself.

John spent the time making himself memorable, shaking hands and introducing himself around using his first and last name whenever possible and giving himself a mysterious and heavily implied backstory. He met the priest and said he might be interested in volunteering. The priest was enthusiastic and asked him to call the rectory on Monday and they'd get his information and let him know where they could use him. John squelched the flare of hope he'd had because there was no chance Bane would agree to that and just smiled and thanked the priest.

Eventually, he ran out of hands to shake and he couldn't exactly say he was waiting for his handler to come pick him up. So, he walked down the street, exploring the area, and ducking into the nearest gas station away from the heat. He bought a drink, grumbling to himself about how nice a phone would be right about now, and tried not to feel like he was waiting for Bane.

"Get noticed," Gordon had said. Well, that didn't necessarily mean making friends with the congregation and the priest. He could also be memorable in other ways.

"Hey," he hollered to the cashier from halfway down the aisle. "How come you guys never have cream soda in these places?"

The cashier just shrugged, bored, and John roused the anger that lived constantly in the back of his throat and under his skin.

"God damn it!" he exploded, slamming the door of the cooler hard enough to make it rattle. "This is a bunch of shit!"

"Hey now," an older man picking out a soda said, holding his hands up. "No need for that, son."

The 'son', so similar to Gordon's, itched at the base of his brain, dipping into actually annoyed instead of just pretending to be annoyed. Gordon had dropped him here, with Bane, expecting him to evade the walking mountain and expose himself to danger with nothing but the promise of a promotion when he got back. Assuming he lived that long.

"Don't call me that!" John yelled, finger in the man's face. "I'm not your son! I'm no one's son. So just fuck off, old man, and stop telling me what to do!"

The cashier watched him warily and a middle-aged woman in the chip aisle clutched a bag to her chest with a worried expression. And all of a sudden, John didn't want to do this anymore.

"Just..." he pointed to the cashier, "just get some better drinks in here for next time!" he said, running out of steam.

"BLAKE."

The voice froze him and pissed him off at the same time. John turned to the doorway, blocked by the wall of masked reckoning, and glared. He stormed to the car, slamming the door into Bane as he exited, and not caring. He stayed pissed as Bane drove them home, although he couldn't quite remember what he was angry about.

When he stomped into the house, flinging his sunglasses on the table and intending slam a few more doors before he felt better, Bane caught his arm.

"Detective. Would you care to explain?"

John's anger flared and he wrenched his arm away. "Stop calling me 'Detective'! It's not even true yet. I have to survive this first, and at this rate, I'm likely to stick my head in the oven before Maroni's men even get a chance!"

Bane's eyebrows frowned and he said, "I apologize if this has been... unpleasant."

John snorted. "Unpleasant? How could it be unpleasant?! I'm only stuck in a two bedroom cat-piss bungalow with you, the evil jailer."

Bane shook his head. "I am a necessary jailer. Without me, Maroni's men would track you down and kill you."

"Is that so? So where were you today, huh, Bane? Decide you needed a little break?"

Bane just looked at him, his eyes not missing a thing. "Is that what you need, Detective?"

"Don't fucking call me that!" John exploded, surprising even himself with his outrage. "I can go wherever I want, do whatever I want! I'm not a criminal!"

"No, you are not," Bane agreed, too calm, stepping closer to John.

"So I shouldn't need a break!"

"No," Bane agreed again. "So why did you do it?"

"Because I'm fucking bored!" John shouted, shoving against Bane's bulk. He'd intended to push Bane out of the way so he could get to his room, but Bane reacted with such speed it had to have been instinctive. He grabbed John's wrist and spun him, twisting it up behind his back until it hurt. Then he pushed John face-first into the wall, pinning him there with his bulk.

"Bored," Bane said, his voice dripping with derision. "Do you need something to occupy your time, Detective Blake?"

All the air had been pushed out of John's lungs and his arm was tingling where Bane was trapping it between them, wrenched almost out of its socket. He couldn't breathe, could barely think beyond the feel of Bane surrounding him. He should have been scared, but all he could think about was Bane pressing him down, holding him down. He was hard as a pipe inside his pants, the blood pumping through his body pulsing in his groin. He panted into the wallpaper.

"Do you require someone else to entertain you?" Bane asked again, loosening his arm slightly and pressing even closer. "Because it seems to me," Bane said, gripping one of John's hips in his wide fist, "that you have plenty to keep your hands full."

John let out his breath in a rush. This could not be happening. God, fuck, he couldn't… he shouldn't…

Bane's mask ran down the back of his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and John shivered.

"Are you bored now, Detective Blake?" Bane rumbled in his ear.

John shook his head, pushing back into Bane. Bane's hard length pressed against the small of John's back, and he moaned. Yeah, okay, he wasn't mis-reading this.

"Good."

He flipped John around, grabbing onto John's belt buckle and hauling their hips together. John, up on his toes, gasped at the pressure on his dick and rocked into the feel of it. He grinned, no stranger to shared orgasms, because he knew what came next: a clashing of hungry tongues and teeth, shared panting breaths, hands grasping skin as fast as possible and flinging come until everyone was sated and smiling.

Except that didn't happen.

It couldn't happen, of course, because to start, there could be no kissing. And John knew that, logically. He had seen Bane's discomfort after the mask was off for something as undemanding as eating. It couldn't come off for this, not if Bane was going to do something that would make him pant. And John wanted to make him pant. As he stared into those ice-gray eyes, narrowed in anticipation but pupils blown wide, John wanted that more than anything.

So when John thought about it, Bane's actions made sense. But he wasn't exactly thinking with his brain at that second, and what happened was, Bane flipped him around, pressed them together, and then he stopped. John blinked at the pause in action, frowning, not understanding, rocking his hips and rubbing against Bane and then whispering, "What the fuck? Bane?" And still Bane waited.

He waited for John to process, to back away, to say no. It took John longer than it should have to realize what Bane was doing, and what he wanted: for John to take the lead.

John forced himself to calm down, to take a breath and focus. He was grasping Bane's forearms, hard and sweaty in the still air, and Bane could crush the life out of John with those forearms if he wanted. So Bane was right to need communication, even if he didn't know how to ask for it; Bane was _right_. And John was stupid. He took a breath, slid his hands from forearms to biceps, and squeezed. He would need to answer Bane's non-verbal question, and more than likely, the more verbal he was, the less Bane would pause to ask more-non verbal questions. Well, that was alright. John already talked enough for the both of them.

"God," John breathed as his hands tried to fit around Bane's arms, "I have wanted you since I saw you in Gordon's office." Bane just looked at him, his eyes searing and intense, and John had a jolt of self-consciousness. "Do you… want this too?"

Bane nodded once, and John grinned. "Good." He slid his hands up to Bane's traps, fingers digging in gleefully. "Then send me to my room, big guy."

Bane picked him up like a coiled spring who'd been waiting to be released, limbs wrapping around John and lifting him as he walked. Bane headed to John's bedroom, which was thankfully the closest, and John wrapped his legs around Bane, his lips and tongue eagerly tasting the salty skin on Bane's neck.

Bane kicked the door shut and threw John, literally tossed him on the bed, where he landed with a bounce.

"Fuck," John whispered in awe. He ogled Bane, towering over him, his calm swagger as sexy as his tight black shirt. Bane stood there, letting John look his fill, his eyes roving over John's body too. "Take your pants off," John croaked out, wetting his lips.

Bane raised an eyebrow, but complied, his nimble fingers undoing belt, button and zip, and John's mouth watered at the bulge his actions revealed. John sat up, moving to the edge of the bed for a better view as Bane pulled out his cock.

He was huge, and uncut, and beautiful. Like, stuff of pornos beautiful. And had he mentioned huge? John breathed in his scent, leaning closer, lips parting in expectation, and holy shit, he'd never wanted a cock in his mouth more than he wanted that one. Bane's foreskin showed the tip of his cockhead peeking out, a tiny drip of clear fluid at the slit. John let out a whine.

John scooted closer, tongue darting out in anticipation, until he was close enough to touch, taste. John grasped Bane's thighs without thinking, just needing something to ground him as he ran his nose along Bane's length, the soft velvety skin luxurious against his lips. John avoided the head at first, savoring, just familiarizing himself with the sheer size of Bane, stomach tensing as he nosed into the curls at the base, his own cock throbbing as he dragged the very tip of his tongue up the shaft.

As he left tiny kitten licks up the underside of Bane's cock, John looked up. Bane was watching him, eyes dark with heat at the sight of his cock laying on John's face. John thrilled at the feeling of power that surged through him, and he resolved to blow Bane's fucking mind.

John brought one hand to the base of Bane's cock, hefting the weight of it in his palm, and pointing that monstrosity right at John's parted lips. John let out a shuddering breath over the head, and another bead of precome leaked out. John grinned and made eye contact with Bane so he could watch him as he licked the precome off the head. Bane's eyes slid shut in pleasure, then he forced them open again so he could watch.

After that, John got down to business, losing himself in touching Bane. He stroked and kissed, then sucked and licked, then stretched his jaw and moaned, pumping Bane's foreskin and suckling, ignoring Bane and doing exactly what he wanted. But there was no mistaking Bane's pleasure.

Bane was exactly as quiet about sex as he was about everything else, but that was okay. Because it meant that each sigh when John sank down on him sounded like hurricane, and the grunt Bane had given when John cupped his balls sounded like a cannon blast. John couldn't miss the way Bane's chest heaved, the way his hips canted and chased after John's mouth, the way Bane's fingertips barely brushed his hair and the tips of his ears, until John pressed Bane's hands to his head, giving him permission to touch.

So Bane was definitely enjoying himself, and John was definitely good at this, but the truth was he'd never been with anyone as big as Bane before. He would need more practice if he expected to bring Bane off with just his mouth. It was hard to pull himself away from the flood of precome he kept lapping up, but eventually he pushed at Bane's hips until he backed up.

He stood in front of Bane, taking in the way Bane's breath quickened when he peeled off his own shirt. John wasn't built like Bane, never would be, but he was alright. And Bane's hands followed his eyes, roving over John's skin, little touches at first, like kisses, then bolder, hungrier. John busied himself pushing Bane's shirt out of the way, then tugging at it until Bane, annoyed, swept it over his head so he could go back to touching John.

John chuckled at Bane's impatience but couldn't blame him. Bane's shirt was off, there was a sheen of sweat over every dip and curve, and John wanted to _touch_. And then he wanted to _taste_. And then he wanted to make Bane come so hard he blacked out. John grinned evilly as he stroked over Bane's chest, thumbs finding Bane's nipples and making Bane give a low, quiet grunt.

It was the Bane equivalent of a shout, and John pounced. With lips wrapped around one and fingers pinching the other, he flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud and Bane shivered. He let out a long, slow breath to the ceiling. John did it again and marvelled as Bane bucked up.

"Oh, you like that?"

John's murmur sounded loud and Bane bucked again before drawing in a shaky breath. Bane hummed in that way he had and John grinned at him.

"Sit down," John said, turning them. He pushed Bane onto the bed and said, "Take off your clothes," and Bane did, watching him. John undressed quickly, his poor dick practically crying when he finally pulled off his underwear, springing free, and John stroked it twice to relieve the pressure.

Bane's hand shot out, stopping him, and John's dick stiffened even further at just how _fast_ Bane was. God damn.

"Bane," John said, his voice strained. Bane looked at him, eyebrows drawn, preoccupied. "I can't take you," John said, simply. "Not without a lot of time and a lot of prep, and I don't want to go slow right now. So, what do you want, big guy?"

Bane blinked and looked confused, as if no one had ever asked him before and he didn't know what his options were. This hulk of muscle sitting naked on John's bed looking a little lost and a lot turned on, and John _wanted._

He stepped closer, slotting one leg between Bane's, and Bane straightened. John put his hands on Bane's shoulders. "You want my hands?" John put one knee on the bed and straddled Bane's thigh. "Your hands? What do you want?" He got closer, sliding them together, skin to skin, his dick singing hallelujah at the actual contact of another human, and Bane's eyelids closing as he pressed his mask into John's chest, breathing in.

Bane, eyes closed, eyebrows frowning fiercely, gave a small head shake and turned his face away. He kept his hands on John's skin, still touching, almost clutching, and John didn't know what that meant, other than, "don't stop." So John bent over the top of Bane's head, the mask stark against his shaved head, and pressed a single kiss to the exposed scalp. Bane stilled, like a startled animal, and John kept stroking him, giving his own, "don't stop," message. John ran his hands over Bane's back, touching the scar tissue there but not obsessing over it, and eventually Bane started to move again. His hands moved confidently over John's skin, touching him everywhere— hips, stomach, back, ass, thighs. Everywhere except his cock.

John forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to think, and realized Bane had done this before. He was asking John to take the lead.

John grasped one of Bane's hands, stopping him, and gave him permission to touch. He folded his hand over Bane's, around his shaft, way back by the base the way he liked it. Except Bane's giant fist covered almost his entire dick, and holy hell, he'd be insulted except it felt fantastic.

"Gnngh, shit, Bane, that's good," John stuttered out, the words tumbling out of him as he guided Bane's fist. "Okay, okayokayokay, just… one sec."

John pulled away to move to the dresser, scrabbling in the top drawer for something he really should have put closer to the bed in the first place. His fingers closed over the lube and, digging, triumphantly a condom and he headed back to Bane, who lost no time maneuvering John back to the exact position he'd been in before. Bane placed his hand confidently over John, a teasing tug before he looked up at John, checking. John smiled, dropping the condom and popping the cap on the lube. He dragged Bane's hand off to coat it with lube, hissing in pleasure when Bane put it back.

"Yeah, just like that," John babbled, "so good, so, fuck, so good."

Bane stroked him firmly and John had never considered himself a noisy guy before, but he couldn't stop the moans Bane pulled out of him. Bane himself was quiet, but his chest heaved and his intense focus wasn't waver from John's cock and if that wasn't a turn on, nothing was.

John's toes literally curled. "Holy hell, Bane, I can't… you gotta stop or I'm going to be done all over the place, ya know?"

Bane paused but didn't remove his hand and looked up at John, his eyes assessing. Then he gave John one last, long, solid stroke, all the way to the tip, and John shuddered all the way through it.

"God," John said, his eyes rolling back. He looked at Bane, a smug satisfaction in his gaze, and glared, laughing. "You're pure evil. Get on the bed."

Bane let him go and backed up, watching John. He took up the entire bed, shoulders touching the edges, and John marvelled that he got to see this man naked, let alone got to fuck him.

"Turn over."

Bane hesitated and John put his hands on Bane's thighs. He touched him softly, stroking the hairs there, petting and soothing. "Turn over," he said, more gently this time, and Bane listened.

Bane's broad expanse of back stretched out before him, and John ran an admiring hand over the swell of muscles there before patting him on the hip. "Up on your knees, Bane. Make some room."

Bane shuffled onto his elbows and knees, his mask pushed into the mattress, and if he'd been a dog, his tail would have been between his legs protecting him. John climbed onto the bed behind him, no sudden movements, keeping his hand on Bane's skin and letting Bane get used to the feel of him again. John hummed his approval, touching Bane appreciatively everywhere except his ass, whispering praise into his skin and ghosting his fingers over Bane's impressive length, until Bane relaxed. His shoulders sank to the bed, his hips high and pressed backward into John's body. John kept them close together, still whispering nonsense and listening to Bane's breathing, getting heavier by the second. John ran his hand between them, touching the swell of Bane's ass and cupping his balls, then stroking Bane's cock from underneath. Bane grunted and twitched, spilling precome over John's fingers and John _wanted_.

"Mmm, Bane, God, you're so good. I'm going to take such good care of you. Gonna make you feel so good," John murmured, no idea what he was saying, thinking about nothing but whatever he could do to make Bane make more noises. John used his precome-slicked fingers to ghost gently over Bane's hole, and Bane jumped, tightening and pulling away a split second before grunting again and pushing back.

John had forgotten he was the one who did the talking here. "Good, Bane, so good. I'm going to touch you here, okay? I'm going to feel how tight you are, get you ready for my cock, make you feel fucking amazing, okay?" Bane just panted into the mattress, so John kept going, kept talking. He dripped more lube onto his fingers, warming it and keeping their bodies close together. "We're going to go slow." He touched Bane's hole, a solid rub at the muscle there. "You can stop me at any time, but I want to make you feel good." John got lost in the feel and response of Bane's body, loosening the ring of muscle, dipping the tip of a finger in, talking him through it. "Gonna be so good. I'm going to make you feel like you make me feel. You drive me fucking crazy, Bane."

Bane let out a long groan into the mattress at that, and John had to think to remember what he'd just said. John blushed and grimaced and vowed to watch his stupid mouth a little closer. But Bane was accommodating him so beautifully, his finger sliding in fully now, ready to add another.

"You okay? Need me to stop?"

Bane shook his head, breathing heavily and rocking back into John's grasp, and John grinned. "You feel perfect. Okay, breathe, just relax." John used more lube, letting the extra run down Bane's balls before he caught it with his other hand and used it to stroke Bane's cock. Bane made a choked sound and spread his knees as far as the mattress would allow, and John quickly worked in a second finger. Bane's body was a masterpiece, a testament to hard work and a hard life, and John had him pinned on two fingers, panting into his pillow. He grinned.

"Good, good. Almost there. One more." John stroked and pressed and whispered, listening for Bane's responses, mesmerized by the sight of his fingers disappearing into Bane's body. When he was sure Bane was stretched, he pulled his fingers out, Bane's grunt the only sound, and wiped his fingers on the sheet so he could open the condom and work it over his dick.

John pressed the head of his cock to Bane's hole, so very, very ready that when he pushed in, he had to take deep breaths and remind himself to go slow. He kept talking, kept telling Bane what he was doing, how well Bane was doing, how good he felt. Bane's hands unclenched from the sheets and John bent forward to drop a kiss to his back, chasing a drop of sweat which was rolling down his spine. And then it happened.

The change of angle punched a surprised, pleased sounding, "Oh!" out of Bane, and John froze, as if not moving would crystallize that sound into something he could keep forever.

"Bane?"

Bane dragged in a breath, then another. "Please," he said, his voice a moan as he thrust back into John.

"Jesus," John groaned, so turned on he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. He found that angle again and doubled down, wringing actual sounds out of Bane, each one more intoxicating than the last. He pounded into Bane, the slap of skin just as hot as those noises, and John's sounds joined Bane's.

"Touch yourself," John grunted, knowing he couldn't last much longer, and Bane's hand immediately fisted his cock, hard and fast and brutal, before a strangled cry was muffled by mask and mattress.

It didn't take much for John after that, pumping his hips frantically into Bane's, drawing even more sounds out of Bane which made John wish he could do this for hours. But his body, keyed up for so long, wasn't letting him focus on anything but the perfection of Bane's, spilling into the condom with a groaned, "Oh, fffuck."

Bane slumped into his own mess, not looking like he gave a shit, and John, legs trembling, tied off the condom and dropped it over the side of the bed, before wedging himself between Bane and the wall.

It was too hot to be this close, but there was no room, and actually, it was kind of nice. They both lay there, catching their breath.

"Holy shit," John breathed to the ceiling, one leg thrown across the back of Bane's thighs. "That. That was. Fuck. Amazing."

Bane hummed, burrowing his face into the mattress and releasing a long, contented sigh. John looked at him but couldn't see his face.

"Hey," he said, touching the back of his hand to the back muscle he could reach. "We should do that again."

Bane's head jerked up, a look of amazement and apprehension in his eyes. "Now?"

John couldn't help it, he laughed. "Well, give me a few minutes. But I meant… you know. Again. Still. Continuously."

He couldn't read the expression on Bane's face, but Bane reached over a warm, wide hand and grasped John's neck, one thumb reaching to trace John's mouth. The pad of his thumb brushed the spot where John knew his dimples were, then grazed his bottom lip again.

"I would agree," Bane said, but his voice softened it, a compliment and an endearment delivered in a way only this man could.

John smiled into Bane's thumb, and stroked the back of his hand over the glorious amounts of Bane's skin available to him. "Can I ask you a question?"

Bane hummed.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Bane's eyebrows drew together in concern, but he gave a short nod.

"Was that the first time you've had anyone…do that?" He let the question hang and watched, fascinated, as a telling blush crept up Bane's neck and Bane withdrew his hand.

"If it was unacceptable in some way— " Bane started.

"Oh, God, no!" John interrupted, rolling closer, covering Bane's body with more of his own. "No, that was perfect. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't hurt you."

Bane studied him, then shook his head and John relaxed again.

"Good." He rolled back and resumed breathing at the ceiling, his eyelids heavy, even though he could feel Bane's eyes on him.

It was a long while before Bane finally spoke. "May I ask you a question?"

John hummed an affirmative, eyes fully closed now, his body sinking into the sheets.

"You do not have to answer if you do not wish to."

Bane's voice was intense, and John opened his eyes. The steady gaze of the man next to him made him prop himself up on an elbow so he could meet his eyes. John tried to quash the niggle in the back of his mind. "Okay."

Bane's eyes were thoughtful, as if trying to decide how to word it. "What," he started, and John tensed. "What is a Piggly Wiggly?"

John blinked at Bane, his mouth hanging open. And then laughed until his stomach hurt.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually John's laughter faded and he wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Oh my god, Bane, I don't even want to know what you thought it was."

He turned to share a grin with him and faltered at the look in Bane's eyes. It was intense; Bane was always intense, but this was different. His forehead was smooth, the crinkles around his eyes said he was laughing with John, but his face was relaxed. He looked… happy. Bane pressed a thumb into John's cheek, right where he knew his dimple was.

"What?" John asked, a smile still in his voice.

Bane just hummed. His fingers continued to explore John's face, grazing over lips and chin and eyebrows. John let his eyes fall closed and he relaxed into Bane's shape, letting them mold together.

"It's crazy, isn't it," he murmured, eyes still closed as he let Bane explore, "we have such different backgrounds, but we still ended up here, at the same time, at the same place. Everything we experienced in life conspired to bring us both to this exact moment, in all of time and space." He turned his face into Bane's palm, the wide hand cupping his cheek and his calluses rasping over John's stubble. "If anything had been different, we might not have met."

Bane didn't say anything, but his thumb traced John's cheekbone, a slow, reverent pass of skin against skin. John opened his eyes and met Bane's, soft and warm, and John felt overwhelmed. He rolled over into Bane, jostling until they were pressed chest to chest, and John could pass a slow hand over Bane's shoulder and up his neck, stroking the smooth skin at the edges of the mask.

"Bane?" John asked, his voice thick, his eyes only able to watch his fingers touching Bane's skin. Bane hummed. "This may be the first time I've ever thought this, but," he swallowed, "I'm actually glad nothing was different."

Bane gripped his hand to stop its progress and John met his eyes. Bane traced John's lower lip with this thumb, a delicate press of his fingerprints onto John's flesh. "Little Robin," Bane said, slow and easy, "I am glad as well."

John grinned giddily into Bane's thumb, looking down and feeling his ears heat up.

"Hello-o?"

The female voice sing-songed from the front door, and John found himself practically dumped on the floor as Bane rolled to his feet. He produced a gun from somewhere and put his body between John and the bedroom doorway. His very naked body.

"John?"

Just as John placed her voice, she poked her brunette head in the bedroom door.

"Well!" she said, smiling even though there was a gun being pointed in her face by a large, unclothed man in a mask. "You look like you're enjoying your exile."

"Selina!" John squawked, grabbing whatevers sheets he could find. "What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me? And what are you _doing_ here?"

Selina waved a hand at his trivial questions, looking Bane up and down like he was a buffet. "Never mind that, Johnny boy, I need the details of whatever you've got going on here." She indicated Bane with an approving glance, Bane's gun never wavering from her face. "You apparently have kinks you never told me about, you bad boy. I'm almost hurt."

"Ohmygod, Selina, shut up. Bane," John said, trying to get his attention, "she's my friend; you don't need to hold a gun on her. Be nice."

Bane didn't move. "I am being nice. She is still breathing."

John sighed. "Pretty sure she's not one of Maroni's men. I think I'd know by now. You can put the gun down. And where did you even _get_ that gun, anyway?"

"Yes," Selina grinned, "I'd like to know where you were keeping it, too."

John dragged a hand over his face. "Okay, perv, get out. Bane, Selina is going to sit in the front room, and keep her hands to herself, _aren't you_?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, sure, Johnny boy. Whatever you say." Then she pretended to be shocked. "Oh, oops, did I just turn you on?"

"Out!"

Selina dropped a wink at them and ducked out the door, closing it behind her, and as soon as she did, Bane lowered the gun and started grabbing his clothes from where they'd been tossed. John realized he recognized the gun— it was the one Bane had given him. He kept it under the bed.

"She should not have been able to locate you," Bane said, sitting down with a grunt of discomfort and began pulling on his clothes.

"Hey," John said, his voice sharp, and Bane looked at him although he didn't stop dressing.

John had so many things he should say— they needed to talk, badly, about so many different things. There was so much he should say right now, and his cop brain wouldn't stop pointing out things he didn't want to address. But all John could focus on right then was the way his gut twisted at the grunt he'd heard when Bane sat down.

"It's going to be alright," he finally said, putting a hand on Bane's shoulder and hoping Bane knew it covered more than one thing.

The look Bane gave him could only be described as dismissive as he shoved his feet into his boots and tied them before standing to buckle his belt. Before John could even move off the rumpled bed, Bane was pulling his shirt over his head as he walked out of the room.

"Well," John told his cock, "that was either the best decision we've ever made, or the absolute most terrifyingly worst."

Selina was sitting in Bane's chair when he made it to the front room, reading out of Bane's journal. Bane held his hand out for it without a word.

"Interesting," she said, closing it and passing it over. "How many languages do you speak?"

John looked at Bane, interested in that answer too.

"Eight or nine," he finally answered, begrudgingly.

"Wow," Selina said, frowning thoughtfully. "Impressive."

Bane didn't reply.

John cleared his throat. "So. Selina. What are you doing here?"

She scoffed and stood. "I'm here to take you to coffee, of course! Come on, grab your parka, it's freezing out there."

"Ha," John snarked. "And no. There's nowhere in this hellhole to get a decent coffee."

"He is not leaving," Bane commanded calmly. "We have things to discuss. Your ability to locate us, for one."

"Well, now," Selina said, contempt in her voice, and John winced. "Look at you, talking like you can tell me what to do, aren't you just a _dor_ able?" She looked him up and down again, this time like he was something that had crawled across her favorite shoes. "What's with the mask? Do you wear it outside the bedroom too?"

"Selina," John interrupted, stepping to put himself between them, "I changed my mind. Let me just put my shoes on and grab my wallet and we'll try to find somewhere that has a espresso machine, okay?"

She gave him a look and he headed back to his room, tugging on Bane's arm until he followed.

"Jesus, Bane, I said you had to be _nice_ , what the fuck? She's not going to tell you anything if you piss her off. I'm just going to go get coffee with her and I'll ask her, okay?"

"I will accompany you, naturally."

"You… okay, fine, but you can't sit with us. She's already got her claws out, she's not going to calm down if you're lurking. Just stay in the car or something."

Bane hummed, and John knew enough of his hums to know that one meant, "Sure I won't."

John rolled his eyes and grabbed his shoes.

"Bane's going to drive us," he said when they emerged, giving Selina an apologetic smile. She considered him and then shrugged.

"Fine, but my last chauffeur knew ten languages, so you're probably going to want to step it up, Masked Man."

"Sorry," John cringed, "Bane, Selina. Selina, Bane. Selina's my best friend. Bane is… well, he's with the Witness Protection Program. He's my guard."

Selina raised an eyebrow at Bane. "Well, in that case, I commend you for keeping such a close... eye... on Johnny boy here."

Bane glared.

"Okay!" John said, clapping his hands. "Let's go, shall we?"

They piled in the sedan, Selina running a curious finger around the bullet hole in the passenger door before claiming the front seat, and John, feeling like an idiot, climbed in the back. They ended up at McDonald's, which did not, in fact, have an espresso machine, but did serve things with the word 'latte' in them, and John and Selina hunkered in a corner booth. Bane, ordering a black coffee he did not drink, got a booth on the other side of the restaurant, and watched the doors.

"Okay, spill." Selina settled back with her drink and looked at John expectantly.

John twisted a napkin. "First things first, full disclosure, I have no idea what's going on with us. We have had zero conversations about this, and honestly, like three conversations total."

She just watched him and sipped her coffee.

John sighed. "He saved my life. One of Maroni's guys tried to kill me but Bane killed him first."

Selina didn't look impressed. "Maybe he just likes killing people."

John shifted. "Maybe. I can't really explain what he's like though. It's been just the two of us, and he's sort of… steady. Kind of comforting, you know?"

Selina sighed and set down her cup. "I hate to point out the obvious, John, but you just had your whole life upheaved. You were in a situation of extreme stress, and he's the only one you know. You don't have contact with anyone else, so of _course_ he's going to be the thing you can count on."

John thought about that and nodded. "No, that makes sense. But it's more than that. He makes me dinner and he likes books, and he doesn't talk much, but when he does, it sounds like he swallowed a dictionary. He's _smart_ , and so fucking confident, and _intense_ , and— "

"Wow."

John looked at her. "What?"

"Well, don't look now, but. You're smiling."

John knew it was true the second she said it and buried his face in his hands, groaning. "God, I'm so fucked, aren't I?"

Selina took a sip. "Probably. What's with the mask?"

"Facial deformity," John said, his voice muffled by his hands. "It gives him pain medication and oxygen. He only takes it off to eat and drink. What am I going to do?"

"Well, for starters," Selina said sagely, "you can have more than three conversations with him."

John glanced at Bane, his stark profile against the garish colors of the decor. "Yeah, good call."

"And you can keep in better contact with me. It's not like I don't know where you are. Could you drop a text from time to time so I don't have to make sure you're not dead on my own?"

"Ah, yeah, sorry," John said. "My phone, uh, broke. And anyway, how _did_ you find me? God, I thought Bane was going to have a coronary."

"Oh, is that what he looks like when he's having a coronary? Huh!"

John gave her a look. "You're dodging."

Selina rolled her eyes. "I did it the same way I do everything, Johnny boy."

"By stealing it? By seducing stupid men?"

She smirked. "I was going to say 'talent', but sure. All of the above. And your tweet didn't hurt."

John sat back, proud of himself. "Should have known you'd see it anyway."

"Are you trying to get killed? Because that's a damn good way to do it."

John glanced at Bane who was watching him. Bane's eyes were bright, assessing everything, and John looked away first.

"Look," John started, his voice low, "you shouldn't be here. Really. It's not safe for you here, and I can't promise Bane can protect you."

Selina regarded him carefully over the rim of her cup. She licked her bright red lips, chasing the last drops and asked casually, "Can you promise he can protect you?"

John thought about it, the surveillance materials, the vigilance, the look on his face when he'd killed the mercenary. And now, the fact that they'd slept together. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think he'd try. And not just because it's his job."

Selina cleared her throat. "Okay, as your best friend, I'm going to need some direction here. Do you want me to tell you how stupid you're being and point out why this is such a bad idea, aka, exactly what you'd do to me, or would you prefer I support your dumbass decisions with enthusiasm because I love you dearly and you clearly need someone in your corner right now?"

John's lips twitched at that because when she'd started dating Ivy, he'd had a few things to say about it. In the end, he'd realized Selina was happier, calmer, and it was none of his business. "Um. Enthusiasm?"

"Oh my gosh, I was hoping you'd say that because I _love_ him!"

John blinked. "Really?"

"No."

John laughed. "I missed you."

"Clearly." Selina swirled the last of her drink. "John, do you really like this guy? Like, really?"

"You mean, like, _like_ like him?" John said drily. "Gosh, I don't know, do you think he like likes me back? Should I send him a note after study hall?"

"Shut up. My source said this wasn't a permanent thing for you. Which, you know, Witness Protection relocation usually is. So I don't know exactly what's going on, and you obviously don't want to tell me, but that means you need to figure this out on your own, and sooner rather than later."

John should have been considering her words but was unable to stop himself from asking, "Who's your source?"

" _John_ ," Selina snapped. "This is serious. It was not hard for me to get information about where you were, which means it wouldn't have been hard for Maroni either. Why is that, John? And you said one of Maroni's guys has already tried to take you out, which implies Maroni knows where you are. Except you're _still here._ Doesn't that seem odd? Even to you who is clearly thinking with your little brain? Something is going on."

John, of course, knew exactly what was going on— Gordon's people were seeding the information to encourage Maroni to take the bait so they could try to trace the hit back to Maroni. But Bane had crushed the life out of their only good lead before anyone could question him, and the card was no good in court. Maroni had already wiggled out of dozens of crimes they'd attempted to pin on him because of his card.

But the thing that was making the niggle in his brain turn into a siren was… why hadn't Bane suggested they move locations?

He hadn't even considered it, wanting Maroni to try again. But Bane… Bane should have been all over that. Maybe that's what his angry phone calls in the yard were about, but if so, why wasn't he sharing that with John?

He sensed more than heard Bane approaching them, a hulking predator trapped in a McDonald's and hating it.

"It is time to go."

Selina raised an eyebrow at Bane. "I'm not quite done with my coffee, so we'll leave in five minutes." Her blood-red lips smiled at him beautifully.

John braced himself for Bane's refusal and Selina's outrage, and World War III which would inevitably follow, but Bane just hummed in that way he had and said, "I will be in the vehicle. Exit out the south door, please."

"Yeah," John answered before Selina could contradict him for the fun of it. "We will."

He watched as Bane walked away, not showing a shred of the discomfort he must have been feeling considering John's dick had been in his ass an hour ago, and he probably still had lube on his thighs and come on his stomach. And, huh, that thought was strangely hot.

"Well, fuck," Selina said, frowning at him.

"What?"

"You are a fucking mess over him, Johnny boy. How do you get yourself into these disasters?"

He held up his hands. "By thinking with the little head?"

"Damn right," Selina muttered.

"How's Ivy?"

Selina gave him a look. "She's fine. Still dislikes you and doesn't think I should be here either, so she'll be thrilled that you agree. She will, however, be impressed when I tell her about the slab of Grade-A man-meat you managed to seduce."

John did not blush.

Selina rolled her eyes. "Alright, I can see you checking your watch, let's go."

"I did not," John frowned rising and walking her to the door.

She let John have the front seat on the way back, where Bane ignored him completely and Selina was on her phone the whole time. John sighed.

"Well, babes," Selina said when they got back to the bungalow, "this has been so much fun, we should do it again." Her lips twisted sadly as she stood next to him curb, holding his shoulders like he'd break and pressing a red-lipped kiss to his cheek. "Call me. Or me. Or send a fucking smoke signal, I don't care. But if I don't hear from you at least once a week, I'm coming back down here to kick your ass. Got it?"

"Got it." She'd been worried, and he hugged her in apology, and she gripped him tightly in return.

"And I know you're fucking him, but watch out for Bane," she said without lowering her voice at all, even though Bane was standing on the sidewalk. Selina looked at him, watching them with his arms crossed. "I don't trust him, Johnny boy."

"I will," he promised, although he didn't know how he'd do that exactly, and hugged her once more. "Say hi to Ivy for me."

Selina snorted. "Sure I won't. See ya, Johnny boy." Then she climbed on the sleek black motorcycle she'd parked on the street and settled her helmet over her head. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Well, that leaves it pretty wide open, then."

She grinned, crimson and ivory, and gunned the engine before taking off, John's hand raised in farewell.

And then it was just the two of them. Bane regarded him coolly, then turned on his heel and headed into the house, leaving John to follow. Apparently today was a "low caution" day.

The inside of their bungalow was almost as sweaty as it had been before they'd crammed the new A/C unit into the window. John jolted when he realized he'd just mentally referred to the house as _theirs_.

The shower was running when John stepped over the threshold and he felt a sense of loss over everything Bane was washing away. They'd missed out on the post-coital conversation, cleaning each other up, Bane's eyes smiling at him again. He hated that Bane's first experience hadn't involved more aftercare. He hated that Selina had insulted Bane to his face, even if she'd made some good points at the restaurant. None of that, whatever Selina thought was going on, had anything to do with what they'd done in John's bed. None of it had anything to do with the two of them being together like that, the trust Bane had given him, the way Bane had said he was glad nothing had been different. It was separate, removed from everything else, and John wanted it again. He wanted to slip back into that distinct space and run his fingers over Bane's skin and show him that, the way he deserved.

John opened the door to the bathroom.

He could see Bane's form through the frosted glass, hands frozen in the middle of swiping soap over his scalp when he'd heard the door open, then he ducked under the spray to greet whatever threat had entered. John took in the mask laying on the counter, towel folded carefully next to it and met Bane's eyes through the glass. He reached for the hem of his shirt.

John stripped quickly and slid open the door, watching Bane, who stood silently, water rippling over his shoulders. Bane swiped the spray from his eyes and over his face as John stepped in and slid the door closed again.

He stepped close to Bane under the warm spray, running his hands over skin and muscles and bone, until he cupped Bane's face in his hands. Bane's mouth, what was left of it, was set in a firm line, and he didn't move, but he didn't stop John's touch either. John leaned up and dropped a soft kiss to the corner of Bane's mouth, right next to the missing lip, then another on the other side. Bane's eyes were closed and his throat worked as John kept kissing, kept touching. They didn't speak, but eventually Bane's hands found John's hips again, then his sides, then his back and he hauled him closer, pressing them together.

When Bane started kissing back it was wet, and slick, and hot, and Bane had definitely done _this_ before. He pressed John into the wall with an urgency that took John's breath away, lifting him so they slotted in place, their skin sliding together tantalizingly. He held John there, kissing him and _kissing_ him, until John was hard and fighting to give as good as he was getting. He grabbed at Bane, anything he could reach to pull him closer, give him more, hold him tighter, forget, forget, _ignore, ignore—_

John clutched Bane's face, needing him, tongue thrusting harder, when his fingers brushed the base of Bane's skull and found a small piece of plastic sticking out of his skin. It was jarring to his fingertips in this place of water and muscles and heat, and John pulled back, worried he'd hurt him somehow. Bane was breathing hard, his panting heavy and rattling in the humid air. His face though. His face was hungry, bright and alive and wanting.

John crooked a smile and ran a thumb over Bane's plush bottom lip. "Let's get your mask, big guy."

He could see Bane grit his teeth as a blaze of anger flashed in his eyes, and he _grunted_ and kissed John again, fierce and full of fight. He licked in, hot and harsh, taking what he wanted, and, fuck, John's knees were going to give out if he kept that up. God damn.

Just as abruptly, Bane tore his face away with a frustrated groan and stepped out, water streaming off him as he reattached the mask, taking deep breaths even as his fingers worked the buckles, the port John had felt earlier protected by the plastic.

John took a few calming breaths before turning off the water and joining him.

Bane stood in the middle of the room, swiping roughly with the towel and avoiding John's eyes until John reached for his face, pressing a kiss to the grill that covered where his mouth was.

John grinned at him. "How about you send me to your room this time."

Bane growled and tossed John over his shoulder, carrying him to bed.

John looked at Bane's face, lax in sleep, pillowed on his bicep and John wished he could trace it with his finger. He would be thinking about those kisses from the shower for quite a while, he knew, not to mention everything that had come after. Bane's face was intriguing, alluring. It felt like a secret only he knew, which was stupid, but compelling anyway.

John's brain, which wouldn't shut off and wouldn't shut up, reminded him there were actual secrets Bane kept, which he couldn't keep ignoring. Not if there was something suspicious going on, which Selina seemed sure of, and John couldn't disprove. On impulse, John directed his fingers to explore under the edge of Bane's bed instead, in the same place he'd stored his own gun. They brushed metal and he pulled out a gun and two knives before they touched something soft. He was intrigued and he stretched as far as he could, snagging the material enough to pull it out. But once it was out, he still had to bring it up to eye level because he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

It was a teddy bear. His fur was worn bare in places and one of his eyes was hanging on by a thread. There was a large rip up his back and John could tell the stuffing inside had been lovingly put back in, but he'd seen some rough years, no doubt about it.

"Buddy, you look like I feel," John muttered, tracing the well-loved face. A deep chuckle rolled from the sleeping form at his side.

Bane's icy eyes were warm on him when John rolled to face him, his thigh tucked between Bane's so he wouldn't fall off the narrow bed. Well, narrow when Bane was in it. John re-settled the bear between them and raised an eyebrow.

"Osito," Bane said, his voice fond.

"Osito, huh?" John looked at the bear again. "Very creative."

Bane hummed.

"I thought you were asleep. I wasn't snooping," John said, "but Osito feels private, so I'm sorry."

Bane's serious eyes were on the bear, instead of John. "We have many secrets from each other, Robin."

John sucked in a breath and let it out, slowly. No one had called him that since… his mom.

"Would. Would that be alright? To call you." Bane asked, still looking at the bear.

John gave him a half smile. "Yeah, of course. Just surprised me."

Bane fidgeted. "It is your name."

John grinned at him fully and ducked down into his eyeline. "Yeah. It is. I like it when you use it." Bane relaxed and John turned the bear back around to face him. "So. Osito. What's your story, huh?"

Bane took the bear from John carefully, his finger finding the groove where the fur was threadbare. "It would be the same as mine. Osito has been with me since the beginning. Since The Pit."

John cocked his head, then nestled it on his own bicep and watched Bane talk to the bear.

"My first memories are of the darkness of a prison, sent to fulfill my father's life sentence. I knew no other childhood home."

"Jesus," John breathed. That couldn't be possible, it just couldn't. "What the hell? How can that be? Who would do that to a kid?"

"Not many, I am assured. The old men at the prison did not know any other children, and they took me under their wing. From them, I studied and gained knowledge of the outside world."

"And eight or nine languages?"

Bane's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Indeed."

He fell silent and John prompted, "And then what happened?"

Bane touched, lightly, the mask, or rather where the face underneath it would be. "Eventually, I escaped."

John let it go, Bane's dark and troubled eyes far away, and he waited until they came back to him. Bane's fingers didn't leave the bear. Eventually, John could see Bane in there again and he smiled at him sadly.

"I'm glad you did. But now I feel bad wishing nothing had been different."

Bane blinked at him slowly and dropped Osito over the side to pull John a little closer. They lay together, breathing, until Bane's eyes drifted closed again. Except John's brain still wouldn't stop.

"Bane?"

"Hmm."

"I… I need to ask you something."

Bane's eyes stayed closed. "No, Robin, that was not my first time."

John breathed out a laugh, the name still warm and intimate on Bane's tongue. "No, not that," he started, hesitant. "But I think if we're going to keep doing this, and I _want_ to keep doing this," he hastened to add, "then we need to start talking."

Bane didn't say anything and John thought he might have fallen asleep for real. Then he hummed.

John licked his lips. "I… I feel like there are things you're…" He broke off, frustrated. "Look, there are some things I think I need you to explain. Like the phone calls in the yard. Are you planning some kind of jihad or something? Or do you have a husband somewhere?" Bane's eyes opened at that. "Part owner of a Piggly Wiggly?" John said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding.

Bane's eyes stayed serious and he looked at John, deciding. "You, no doubt, heard many phone calls. None of them are of any concern to you."

John's heart sank at Bane's non-answer. If Bane couldn't even tell him this, what future was there for them? How could he trust Bane completely? He licked his lips again, unsure of where to go from here, not with Bane's naked body still wrapped around him.

"However," Bane continued, his voice grave, "I may be able explain some of them." He shifted into a more comfortable position, and John tried not to sag with relief. "I have a god-daughter. And my brother, who is watching over her while I am here."

John closed his mouth. "Oh. Um. Wow, I didn't know that."

Bane raised an eyebrow. "I am aware."

John pushed his shoulder, feeling his ears heat. "Shut up. How old is she?"

"She is a teenager, unfortunately. She can be… obstinate. She is challenging even Barsad."

"Your brother?"

"Hmm. In all but blood. Those two… they are my reason."

John thought about Bane sharing that information with him, the people who were the most important to him. John had assumed Bane was like he was: alone in the world. He wasn't sure why he'd assumed that. Maybe it was Bane's singularity— if any man was an island, surely it had to be Bane.

But he wasn't. He had people who relied on him, who called him on the phone, who needed him to answer. All of a sudden, Bane crushing the life out of a mercenary who might have tried to kill both of them made a lot more sense. He looked at Bane in a different light, like falling into someone you thought was a swimming pool and finding out they were an ocean. And John felt like he was being swept out to sea.

"What's her name?" John asked quietly. "If you don't mind telling me."

Bane looked surprised. "I do not mind, Robin. Her name is Talia."

His voice changed when he said her name, pride and love infusing every syllable.

"When will you get to see her again?"

Bane's eyebrows drew together and his forehead creased. His pause was heavy and painful. "I do not know." There was a hardness in his voice, a finality, as if the conversation was now over.

John wished he had something of equal weight to share, some bit of his small life to give to Bane, to show him he appreciated Bane's trust. But John only had one secret, and he was fairly sure sharing it would only lose Bane's trust.

He squirmed down the bed until he could rest his head under Bane's chin, close together because the bed required it, not upset about it because John didn't want this to be over yet. Once Maroni's men made their move, he and Bane might be able to try again, if Bane forgave him for undermining him.

He pressed his nose into Bane's chest and trying to drown out thoughts with the smell of him. Forget, forget, _ignore, ignore_ , until sleep mercifully dragged him down.


	7. Chapter 7

"Bane?"

When John woke up, he'd been in the middle of the bed, curled around Bane's pillow, so he had no idea if Bane had slept, or if John had been the worst bed-sharing partner in the world and pushed him out. The thought of Bane crawling over him, though, made him smile and he stretched out, loving the twinge of muscles overworked by sex.

His fingers brushed soft fur and he pulled Osito onto his chest. "Hey, buddy."

He could hear movement, but it was the smells which eventually pulled him into the kitchen. Bane, apron in place, was stirring several pans and the sizzle of bacon was making John's mouth water almost as much as the A-frame and low-slung pajama pants Bane was wearing.

"Smells good," John said, trying to flatten his hair and giving Bane an awkward smile when he turned from the stove.

"Hmmm. You may use the shower if you wish; the food is not yet ready."

" 'kay," John murmured, grabbing his stuff from his room and ducking into the bathroom. It was almost a relief to have a moment to himself, without Bane's presence overwhelming his senses. And then his cop brain was yelling at him, surrounded by steam and silence, to consider the things he didn't know about Bane, the questions he should be asking if he wanted anything real with this man. The secret John was withholding seemed like a betrayal. Selina was convinced Bane was keeping something from him, and hell, she might be right, she was probably right, but how was he any different? Could he really judge Bane for keeping things close to the vest?

Toothbrush in his mouth, he reminded his cop brain about the way Bane's eyes had looked when he'd revealed Talia and Barsad in his life, his "reason", and opening up to John in a way he couldn't reciprocate. His cop brain just flashed reminder after reminder that they were still in the same house where Bane had murdered a man. A man who'd been sent to kill him. And Bane, who was so very good at his job, didn't seem to notice how off that was.

John smoothed his hair and faced himself in the mirror. "Come on, Blake. Get your shit together." He broke it down in his head: things he could do, and things he couldn't do. And then he sighed and went to breakfast.

Bane had set the table differently, one plate on the end and one on the corner. He was dishing up what looked like eggs with some kind of cream sauce on an English muffin, french toast, and bacon onto two plates. There was enough to feed a small army, and it smelled divine.

"Holy shit," John said, trying not to drool, "is it still considered brunch if you eat enough for both meals?"

Bane cocked his head at him quizzically but just pulled off the apron and sat down, serving himself and cutting his food.

John sat, watching Bane carefully for signs of what exactly he wanted. But he just cleaved through the plating, which was, frankly, beautiful, chopping his food into small pieces. Maybe this could wait until after breakfast. This seemed like a solid "doing dishes" conversation. Because John had a pretty strong feeling that his list of "can do" and "cannot do" was going to fuck this up pretty badly.

"So," John said, filling his plate and ignoring the way their knees brushed every time he reached for something, "you seem like you've been up for a while— mmph!"

And Bane was kissing him. He'd taken off his mask, leaned over the corner of the table to grab John's shirt, and haul him in. The kiss was fierce and hard and fucking hot, Bane slotting their mouths together and not giving John an inch.

John's spine was starting to melt and his pants were getting tight when Bane broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard. John's fingers were fisted around the shoulder straps of Bane's shirt, and he didn't want to let go. When he unclenched them, the smug smirk Bane wore seemed well earned because John couldn't think straight. Holy fuck, the mask was a public service. That man's mouth was a menace.

"Um."

Bane reseated himself as if nothing had happened, while John flopped back in his chair, eyes wide, staring at him and trying to reconcile the thoughts he'd been wrestling with and the thoughts he was having right now. If he waited one more night, would it count as a betrayal? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Um, Bane?" John's voice sounded shaky and he cleared his throat.

Bane raised an eyebrow, methodically eating food while his lungs would let him.

"Fuck, I'm… never mind. It can wait until we eat."

"Speak, little Robin," Bane commanded calmly, eyes focused on his plate, still chewing and swallowing.

John licked his lips. "Okay. Um. I have something to tell you."

Bane didn't look up.

"It's. It's from before I knew you, and I'm not really supposed to be telling you now. It's just that I can't…" John broke off, frustrated, wishing he could pace. He put his fork down. "I want this. I want morning breakfast, and you kissing me, and- and I can't keep _lying_ to you."

Bane stopped at that, his eyes fierce on John. He still had food on his plate, cut and ready to shovel in, his fork frozen in mid-air.

John dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. "Gordon sent me here. As bait."

The silence was broken by the A/C in the window, rattling its complaints, and Bane's only response was to reach for the mask and refit it to his face, buckling the straps behind his head with practiced flicks of his fingers. He took several deep breaths, staring at his plate and abandoned food, and John couldn't stop his mouth.

"I was supposed to leave clues for Maroni's men, and when they showed up, Gordon was going to use them to catch Maroni, bring him down for good. And we—"

"Detective."

The word was a punch in the face and John winced. He tried to drag air back into his lungs. "I'm sorry," he said, unable to look anywhere but at the eggs on his plate. "I know you were just trying to do your job."

"My job," Bane said, a bitter twist to his words. His eyebrows were fiercely drawn together and he too addressed only his food. He cleared his throat, his large hands clenching open and closed on the table. "I also have something to tell you, Robin Jonathan Blake."

John braced himself, but knowing it was over already. The 'Detective' had told him that. His days of being just 'Robin' were done, and the sooner he got used to that idea, the easier it would be to stop the ache in his chest. It was the next in a long line of things in John's life that weren't fair, and he should really be familiar with it by now so it should stop being a surprise. But they hadn't even gotten a chance to get started.

"I was also sent here," Bane said. "By Maroni."

John looked up, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

Bane shifted in his seat, then looked John in the face. His forehead was smooth, his eyes flat behind the mask. "I am a mercenary, Detective Blake. I was sent to kill you."

John sat, his mouth opening and shutting and nothing coming out and his brain tried to keep up. "You… what? You were going to kill me?"

Bane's eyes just looked resigned. "Those are my orders. I have been attempting to convince them that you are not a necessary target. Seeing as how little you know about Gotham's police departments inner workings and the legal proceedings which would interest them."

"Convince them… you mean Maroni."

Bane hummed, and for once, John hated that sound. He wanted to run, to scream, to kick and bite and _fight_. He wanted to push Bane away and then have Bane there for him to turn to.

"So," John said, putting an elbow on the table and pressing his forehead into the heel of his hand. "What do we do?"

Bane didn't answer at first. "If I am unsuccessful in my mission," he started.

"If?!"

Bane met his outraged stare, his forehead furrowed. "If I am not successful, they will send others. Maroni wants to use you to send a message: that no one can escape his reach, especially not those Gotham wishes to protect. He is already concerned this has taken as long as it has."

John sat back in his chair, the two of them still sitting in front of their breakfast spread. "Is that why they sent that other guy?"

Bane gave an annoyed head shake. "He was trying to make a name for himself. Complete the kill Bane could not. He was weak."

"And what if you refuse to kill me?"

Bane looked at him, his shoulders rigid and his voice hollow. "They will send another. And another. And another. Until I make a mistake or until one of them gets lucky. They will not stop."

"What if…" John thought furiously. "What if you just tell Maroni I'm dead, and I go into actual Witness Protection?"

Bane gave him a look. "You are in actual Witness Protection. And you can see how well that worked."

John gritted his teeth and slammed his hand on the table, the sound explosive in the small space. "God damn it, Bane! There's got to be something! This is my life we're talking about here."

Bane's eyes narrowed. "I am aware. And there is one thing we can do."

"What?"

"I can protect you."

"But you just said!" John protested. "You said eventually they'd get lucky or you'd make a mistake."

"I have no intention of letting either of those things happen easily."

"But—"

"You thought I was your bodyguard once before," Bane interrupted. "Allow me to be one now."

John was already shaking his head before Bane got done talking. "And live my whole life like this? On the run? And what about you? What about Talia? And Barsad?"

Bane's face turned hard. "You will not—"

"No!" John shouted, rising from his seat. "I won't let you do this. I'm not going to let you give up everything that's important to you, everything you _are_ , for me."

Bane rose, graceful and solid, to his full height. He looked down at John from where he towered above him. "I am a contract killer, Robin. _That_ is what I am."

The name hit him in the chest and he ached with what he could never have. John's fists clenched and he looked at his boots. "Not to me."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Bane standing over the breakfast he'd spent all morning making.

He fit what he could in his duffel bag and propped a newly repaired Osito on Bane's pillow before he opened the front door for the last time. He would never see this house again, and while he knew it couldn't possibly be cold, as he closed the door behind him, he started to shiver.

If he was being honest with himself, he couldn't believe it had taken as long as it had. But the few weeks he'd spent on the run, changing names and hotels and looking constantly over his shoulder had felt much longer, and he should have realized how much Bane had been doing to keep Maroni's men off his tail.

It was embarrassing, really. He was a cop. He grew up in The Narrows. He had the most street smarts one could acquire without actually being a criminal, but he supposed none of that stopped being clubbed over the head and dragged to a van with a bag over your head.

Maroni's men came for him at dusk, when he was pulling groceries from the back seat of the car he'd gotten for $500, and they left most of them scattered over the pavement of the motel parking lot. Except one of them grabbed his box of Twinkies. John could tell because he could smell someone eating them, the asshole, and the accompanying crinkle of the wrapper sealed his fate. When he finally got out of here, none of these assholes were going to see anything but the inside of a prison cell for the rest of their lives. Didn't they know how hard it was to find places that stocked Twinkies by the box?

He hollered things of that nature until he was hoarse and didn't get a single reply. The trip in the van lasted at least four hours, as far as John could gauge, and he was 75% sure they'd left west out of town, although he couldn't hear if they were on an interstate or smaller highway, and he was so _angry_ , at himself, at his kidnappers, at Bane, at Gordon, that it wasn't hard to keep up a running litany of insults the whole way.

John's bladder was starting to complain when they finally pulled onto a side road, and he fell silent trying to keep track of turns and time spent navigating what felt like a low-maintenance road. Each jounce and rut made him grit his teeth and think about anything other than running rivers, or tidal waves, or waterfalls. After twenty minutes, the van slowed and finally stopped, the sliding door opening and everyone piling out. Almost as an afterthought, they grabbed John and he stumbled out of the van, hands tied behind his back and bag still over his head, crashing to the ground. He tensed, waiting for them to haul him back up, but they didn't. They just stood while he tried to take stock of how many of them there were, the type of grass his knees were pressed against, how far he could throw them if they made the mistake of bending over him. Eventually he got up on his own, and they just led him forward, letting his trip and stumble over every dip in the ground.

He fell twice more before they reached a wooden porch, from the sounds of it, and they shoved him up and through a screechy screen door and inside a place where the stale, muggy air reached him even through the bag.

He stumbled over the threshold, tripping and crashing through a low table with his shoulder and his face, and then he lay there, panting into the bag, blood from his probably-broken nose and a cut on his head running into his mouth.

"Ah, fuck," came a voice above him, "now he's got blood all over everything."

"You weren't supposed to talk, either, dumbass."

John felt a flare of hope at that, until another voice said, "Well, since you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube…" and a vicious kick landed on his left kidney. John grunted, determined not to add to their fun.

"Oh, you don't like that?" came the sneer, and he got a kick in the face for his trouble, the bones in his nose crunching together. John couldn't stop the cry torn from his throat, and he curled himself tighter.

"Ah, stop it. He's on his way. Said he wanted him alive."

"Yeah," came the first voice, "but it's a long drive. And did he say how many pieces he needed to be in?"

There was a metallic snick of a blade opening, and John stiffened, trying to back away, even though he knew it was useless.

"No," said the second with a smile John could hear, "no, he never said anything about that."

They laughed, a cruel, ugly sound, and John felt the sting of a blade pierce his forearm.

"Fuck!" he said, jerking back and consequently causing the knife to slice him where he dragged his arm away. They laughed again, taunts and jeers adding to it. The cut goddamned hurt, but not as much as the kick to the face had, and John gritted his teeth.

"Hey, guys? Come on. I'm just a guy, like you, just trying to live his life. Can we not do this? I have to pee, I've got blood in my eyes, and I don't fucking know _anything_." The anger he always felt crept into the last word and he swallowed again, blood and bile better in his stomach than in his nose and ears. He could feel the blood running down his wrists and for a moment he thought they might take pity on him. Then there was a sharp kick right in his overfull bladder. John grunted in pain, his balls drawing up as his bladder let go, soaking the front of his pants. The hysterical laughter crashed around his head.

It went on and on and on, John moaning into the floor, lying on broken pieces of wood while four men took turns kicking him, and cutting him only deep enough to be painful.

Finally, a fifth voice cut through the jeering laughter. "Alright, alright, you assholes. Jesus, he smells like piss. Clean him up, he'll be here soon. And _don't_ untie his hands."

"Yeah, yeah, we fuckin' know," one of the other's mumbled under his breath, but John felt hands in his armpits hauling him up and he used a last surge of strength to kick out, trying to land a hit, any hit, on his captors. He caught one of them in the leg and the others laughed as the man howled, dropping John back to the floor, where he landed with a grunt on his knees. He tried to steady his breath, tried to make the next contact an attack, sick of being a victim.

"You fucker!" the man yelped before slamming something across the back of John's head hard enough to make him see stars.

"Get him up," the fifth voice, clearly the leader, said. "Change his pants and wipe enough blood off his face so Maroni knows who it is. You've got ten minutes."

John struggled, but between the four of them, they cut off his jeans and underwear and found a pair of too-large sweatpants to put on him. They mostly just put them over John's feet and held them steady while he thrashed and kicked, the sweats riding up with his movement and essentially dressing himself. John cursed himself, and them, a blue streak.

He was efficiently zip-tied to a chair and the bag was ripped off his head, drying blood pulling at his skin and fresh blood smearing across his face. John tried to catch glimpses of his attackers and their surroundings while his face was scrubbed by a wet wipe in painful swipes and the bag, turned inside out, was put back on his head.

They made their ten minute deadline by seconds because John heard the squeaky door open and a blast of air stirring the humid house while everything else fell still.

John panted breaths into the thick cotton, ears straining and trying to figure out his play if this really was Maroni.

"Officer Blake," came the heavy voice John recognized from trial footage and hours of TV coverage. "Or should I say Detective Blake? I hear you're in line for a promotion."

"I have to make it back alive, first," came John's muffled answer. Maroni laughed.

"Well, in that case, let's just stick to Officer. Don't want to jinx anything."

John grimaced as the bag was removed again and the bright light revealed Maroni, sitting comfortably on a plaid couch in a suit that cost more than John's apartment.

"Tell me, Officer," Maroni said, sitting forward and looking at John as if he actually gave a shit about anything he said. "Which do you think is more important in this world: money or power?"

John didn't say anything, not interested in playing this sick game. He just glared.

"No, this is the part where you answer, son. I'm interested in your perspective. I, as you know, have both, whereas you have neither. So, naturally, I feel my judgement is different than yours and I'm very curious what you think is the more beneficial."

The air hung heavy while he waited for an answer and John waited for the slap which was supposed to encourage him to talk. He wasn't disappointed. Except it was more of a punch, and his head swam and his cheek got cut open on his teeth. He spat out the blood at Maroni's feet, grateful he didn't have to swallow it.

Maroni just chuckled. "Oh, Officer Blake. You seem to think that ruining my shoes will upset me. What you haven't calculated is that I have many, many shoes, and that I'm already upset."

His voice changed from joking to cold, and John felt his stomach clench in fear and preparation.

"I am waiting for your answer, Officer."

His face was hard and angry, and the goon who had punched him looked giddy at the thought of getting to do it again.

John licked his split lip, his eyes on Maroni, and spit again. "Doesn't look like either of them would be very helpful right now."

Maroni tilted his head, studying John, as if he hadn't expected that answer. "Interesting. You're wrong, of course, because the correct answer is 'power', which is probably the only thing that _could_ save you, if saving you were a thing that was even possible."

Maroni rose to his feet and started taking his rings off as he paced, placing them one at a time in his suit jacket pocket. There was a small, metallic clink as he dropped them in.

"You see, with enough power, you don't need money. You have reputation, you have clout." He leaned over John, his face close enough that John could smell the coffee on his breath. "People hear your name, and then," he gave an exaggerated shiver, "they just itch to obey." He grinned.

With a movement faster than John would have thought possible, Maroni's hand snatched John's jaw and yanked it painfully to the side. John squirmed, but Maroni held him tight, bringing his lips to John's ear. "That's why you're here, you see. You are affecting my most precious commodity. And while the people who steal money from me are punished, severely, those who attempt to steal power… well, let's just say that money would be a lot easier to return."

John glared at him from where his head was wrenched, hating this man with every beat of his heart. "You killed 87 people in the last ten years alone, and put hundreds of poor people in shitty housing so you could profit off their poverty. You bring in more and more potent drugs to keep people addicted, you make people feel like you're the only way to get out of their shit life, but then you just hold them there with your foot on their neck. You're a _disease_."

John spit the word at him, mouth full of blood again, and he felt a thrill of power when he saw a fleck land on Maroni's cheek. Maroni straightened with disgust and withdrew his handkerchief to wipe it away. He tucked it carefully away, only to reach into his jacket pocket and withdraw a set of brass knuckles. He fitted them thoughtfully over his hands.

"You may be right, Officer Blake. But if you're the medicine, you're not powerful enough to stop me."

He punched John so hard his head snapped back. His cheek felt like it exploded and when the next punch came, his vision went black he thought he'd lost his eye. Then he blinked the blood away in time to see Maroni's fist pulled back and descending.

John closed his eyes in preparation, steeling himself for the pain, but it never came. He heard the smack of flesh on flesh and opened his eyes to see 6'5" of muscled wrath descend on Maroni and his men.

Bane in motion was beautiful to watch. He wasted no movements, seemed to sense where the next man would be, and John had never seen a fighting style like his before. He was ruthless, and John could see it was not about martial arts. It was about carnage. Whatever movement lent the most pain, Bane brought to each man in spades. His wide fingers twisted joints, grabbed rib cages, and crushed necks. His heavy black boots kicked through shins and stamped on collarbones. And when each of Maroni's men had been brought low, mewling on the floor, Bane wrung the life out of them. And then he went after Maroni.

Maroni had fled, and John, still tied to the chair, shouted, "Out the front door!" to Bane as the last man went still. Bane gave chase, but if John had thought for one moment that an aging gangster in an expensive suit could out-run Bane, he hadn't been paying attention.

"Bane, you disloyal piece of shit," Maroni yelled and Bane hauled him roughly through the door. "You are _done_ , do you hear me? You will never work again, not here, not anywhere. You will be stocking shelves for the rest of your life, _do you hear me_?"

Bane didn't reply, just dragged the man before the plaid couch and pushed him to his knees. He was lower than John, hands visibly shaking even as he tried to sneer up at him.

"Maroni," John said, revolted at the taste of the name in his mouth. "You'd better hope that the worst thing that happens to you is that Gordon locks you up for the rest of your miserable, disgusting life."

"Tch. You cannot touch me. Whatever harm you do to me will be nothing compared to what we'll do to your loved ones. You think we don't know about your boys' home? Gordon? The bitch? We will end them all. One word from me, and—"

Bane squeezed the man's neck hard enough to stop him from talking. "But how can you give the word, Maroni," he asked, his voice lethal, "if you do not have a tongue?"

With speed that defied logic, Bane's hand snaked out and yanked the muscle from Maroni's mouth, snapping off at least one tooth in the process. John grimaced at the spill of blood as Maroni screamed, hands digging helplessly at his mouth.

Bane dropped the tongue on the ground and Maroni floundered to retrieve it, still screaming. Bane just hauled him back to his knees and wiped his hand on Maroni's suit.

"Now, you will listen very closely," Bane said. "I gave a rule. A very simple rule, do you remember? I'll repeat it." He leaned close to Maroni's head, who had stifled his screams to whimpers to hear Bane whisper, "No one. Touches him. But me. Hmm? You remember. But that's twice now I've had to remind you. And I'm not a patient man."

Bane straightened, and looked to John. Bane's hand rested, calm and relaxed, on the back of Maroni's neck, and John didn't know how Maroni wasn't cringing away from the certain death it represented. John tensed, watching Maroni's face, for the moment he would know this nightmare was over. But Bane just stood there.

And suddenly, John knew what he was doing. He was waiting for John to take the lead. He was giving John the power Maroni said he didn't have. He met Bane's eyes, steady and sure, and John knew that Bane would follow whatever he decided. This was John's call, and John hated it. Because he knew what the right answer was, and he wasn't going to choose it.

He took a deep breath. He stared at Maroni, each beat of his heart pumping blood out of his mouth and down his chin, eyes wide and terror seeping out of his very pores. He knew the power was John's too, because his face was pleading with John.

John closed his eyes. "87 people," he murmured. "Slums and drugs and climbing your way to the top by creating stepping stones out of minorities and poverty-stricken people with no hope. You are scum, Maroni. And I may not be powerful medicine. But I think I know someone who is."

John met Bane's eyes, his teeth gritted, his heart racing, and nodded.

Bane nodded back, and the hand resting on Maroni's neck tightened. Bane bent the man forward with his other hand on the back of his head, and with a sickening wet ' _pop'_ that would reverberate in John's mind forever, snapped his spinal column.

John slammed his eyes shut as Maroni slumped to the floor and held them shut as Bane cut his ties. His body started to shake uncontrollably and he slid out of the chair, only for Bane to catch him before he hit the ground.

Without a word, Bane lifted John into his arms and carried him out of the house.

"How did you find me?" John gritted through the pain, his eyes still closed, focused only on Bane's body, solid and comforting.

Bane hummed, and John thought he'd never heard a better sound. "I did not."

John forced his eyes open to look at Bane, this man in a mask who had saved his life, this man who had taken another's at his command. His eyes were crinkling.

"You failed to Selina."

The world went gray, and then, thankfully, black.

When John woke, it was to the beep of hospital monitors.

"Son?"

John turned to see Gordon in the doorway, cup 'o' noodles in his hand. John blinked, but the vision stayed.

"Nurse! He's awake!" Gordon rushed to his side, food in his hand forgotten and John would have found it funny if he didn't hurt everywhere.

He looked around. "Bane?" he croaked, reaching for the water.

"Don't move, I've got ya," Gordon said, swapping his cup for John's and bringing it to his lips. The nurses came in then, checking John over, asking him questions, recording the answers, and Gordon moved aside.

When they finally cleared out and it was just the two of them, Gordon said, "Thank God you're awake, John. I've got a pile of dead bodies and frankly no idea what to tell anyone. What in the holy name of Christ went down last night?"

"Last night?" John asked, head still fuzzy. "How long have I been out?"

Gordon shook his head. "No idea. Coroner put time of death at around 2 am, but you were unconscious when the hospital staff found you in one of Maroni's cars. Now you tell me— what the _hell_ happened?"

John swallowed and let his head drop back on the pillow. "Bane."

Gordon's jaw dropped. " _Bane_ did this to you?!"

"No, no, no," John said, irritated. "Bane happened to them. But he could have." He sighed, knowing he wasn't making sense. "Bane was one of Maroni's. He was supposed to kill me. But he… didn't."

Gordon looked flabbergasted.

"Look," John said, trying to keep Gordon in focus. "Bane was doing his job. Your job, I mean. The one you hired him for. Those men are dead and good goddamn riddance."

"But _Maroni_ ," Gordon insisted. "Now all of those cases will never get solved. All of those families waiting for justice, for closure… John, this is not how the criminal justice system gets stronger. People need to believe in it. People need to believe that good will win, that rules and order will bring down the bad. People need _hope_ , God damn it. They don't need more death and they definitely don't need another killer to be afraid of."

"So give them hope, Commissioner," John murmured, his eyes feeling heavy. "You have your first six prisoners captured and put away by the Dent Act. They received life sentences. They're going away for a very, very long time. They'll probably never see the light of day again."

Gordon looked at him, his mouth hanging open, and then he let out one harsh bark of a laugh. Then he closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand down his face. "Jesus, I…" His mouth twisted, his heavy-lidded eyes that hid sharp intellect blinked open. "Yeah. Maybe. Hope, right?"

"Hope," John agreed, his eyes closed. He let his head drop back on the pillow.

"What about Bane?"

John hummed. "No one touches him but me."


	8. Chapter 8

Reykjavik had a strange, erie beauty, and John could see the appeal. He stopped to ask directions, which may have been a bad idea considering how many people watched him get back in his car while trying not to look like they were watching him get back in his car. But in the end, he was glad he had because when he pulled in front of the small house, it had started to snow. Again.

The frigid air brushed his face and he snuggled into the warmth of the scarf he'd purchased at the airport. How in the hell the man could choose to live like this, John would never know. Was he not aware there were places on this planet which didn't involve either end of the temperature spectrum? Places where it was decent all year long?

It had taken Selina six months, even with the Gotham PD's resources at her disposal, to find him. He hadn't seen Bane in six goddamn months. They'd slept together twice, Bane had saved his life the same number of times, and he'd watched Bane kill seven people in front of him. All-in-all, it was the foundation for a really long-lasting relationship. His therapist thought he was insane.

Maybe he was. Maybe Bane thought he was insane too. Maybe that's why he'd fallen off the world, retiring from the mercenary game, and living out of a house which could have belonged to Viola Weatherby's sister.

John looked at the house appraisingly. Actually, that wasn't true. It was tiny, but that was the only thing even remotely similar to the last house John had known Bane in. He could see solar panels and a barrel to catch snowmelt, and the steep pitch of the roof made him think of gingerbread houses. John felt a tug of longing. He liked it. He liked it a lot. He squared his shoulders and doubled his resolve.

He had practiced his speech in the airplane, in the car, and every waking minute for the last six months. His knock was muffled by thick gloves, but Bane heard him anyway. The door was yanked open and then there he was. Black henley, bare head, mask in place, and John met Bane's ferocious glare with a hesitant smile.

Bane's face cleared in surprise. "Robin?"

The warmth that flooded John at the sound of that could have powered half of Iceland. He grinned. "The Piggly Wiggly is a grocery store."

Bane looked baffled. "I... am aware?"

"Well, I am not surprised," John said, smiling. "It's just like you to look it up." Then he sobered, holding Bane's gaze and taking a deep breath. "Because you find out about stuff when you don't already know. You're freaking brilliant, really, and it's pretty humbling. Knowing you makes me want to look stuff up too. You… you make me want to know what you know," he confessed. "No, that's not right. You make me want to know _you_ , Bane. And I know it's been six months, and I know it was a shit start, but I came all the way across the ocean to tell you that I want to know everything. Your stories, your scars, your hopes and fears." John took a step forward, grasping Bane's hand in his gloved one, his snow covered boots inches from Bane's bare feet, but Bane didn't seem to notice.

He still hadn't said anything, and John couldn't read his expression. He bit his lip and barreled on. "And. And I want to be known by you. I want you to know my stories. I want to give them to you. If you'll have them."

John held his breath, the puffs of air between them coming only from Bane's mask. The silence stretched and John prayed it was one of those moments that only felt like it was lasting eons.

Then Bane's eyes flickered to the space behind John.

John turned and saw a slim, rugged man standing behind him, holding two bags of groceries. His sharp blue eyes didn't look like they missed much, but he had to have heard everything John just said.

"Excuse me," the man murmured, stepping around John, and Bane turned to let him into the house.

"Oh, God," John breathed. He lived there. Of course he did. Bane had met someone and moved on, and Jesus fuck, John was the biggest idiot on the planet. He backpedaled, almost falling off the step in his hurry to get away. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize… I apologize for intruding, please, just forget this ever happened."

He spun on his heel, blindly reaching for the car so he could get the hell out of here, nevermind the duffel bag in the back seat, nevermind that he didn't have a return plane ticket purchased. He had to get out of there.

"Robin," came Bane's voice from behind him, but John ignored him. He didn't need to be invited in for coffee or whale blubber or whatever people here served to uninvited guests who burst in on men and their new boyfriends while—

"John!"

Bane's hand on his bicep stopped him.

"If you will not listen, how can you hear my stories?"

John stilled, not quite sure what to believe. He turned to look at Bane.

Bane's eyes smiled. "Although Barsad will need to get additional supplies, he will appreciate me having a new audience. I am certain he is tired of hearing them."

John blinked. " _That's_ … that was _Barsad_?!"

Bane's eyes crinkled and he nodded once.

John sagged against the car, letting out the breath he'd been holding and Bane laughed. He pulled John to him, wrapping his arms around him and tucking John's head under his chin. "My Robin," he hummed, and John felt warm all over, clutching at Bane's back. "How can you not know? I have wanted to know your stories since I saw you in Gordon's office."

John breathed in Bane's scent, eyes closed against the burn of relieved tears waiting there. "Well. I didn't know who the Ayatollah was."

Bane chuckled, the sound reverberating in John's chest. "Come inside, Robin. Meet Talia."

John pulled back to look at him, amazed at his level of trust. He didn't know what to say.

Bane's eyes were warm. "Or at least allow me to put on socks."

John glanced at his bare feet, beet red in the snow. "Oh, Christ, Bane, you idiot, I'm sorry, Jesus, get inside."

Bane laughed again, like it came easily, and tucked John into his side to lead him into his home.


End file.
